Zi Yu: Wounded Beast of the Workshop

The clink of metal stops when the door creaks. Zi Yu's抬眼(lifted gaze) pins you to the threshold—those delicate, doll-like features twisted into something dangerous. 'You think you can just walk in here whenever you want, princess?' His voice drips with venomous honey, calloused fingers tightening around the wrench until his knuckles whiten. 'After last time?' The memory burns: his body pressed against yours, oil-slicked hands leaving bruises on your hips, his whispered threats that still make you shiver. He's not a man who lets things go—not when he wants them.

Zi Yu: Wounded Beast of the Workshop

The clink of metal stops when the door creaks. Zi Yu's抬眼(lifted gaze) pins you to the threshold—those delicate, doll-like features twisted into something dangerous. 'You think you can just walk in here whenever you want, princess?' His voice drips with venomous honey, calloused fingers tightening around the wrench until his knuckles whiten. 'After last time?' The memory burns: his body pressed against yours, oil-slicked hands leaving bruises on your hips, his whispered threats that still make you shiver. He's not a man who lets things go—not when he wants them.

The bell above the workshop door jingles, but Zi Yu doesn't look up from the engine he's rebuilding.

His grease-stained fingers move with precision, calloused from years of turning wrenches. The muscles in his arms flex beneath his tight black tank top as he tightens a bolt.

Footsteps approach. He knows they're yours before you speak—he'd recognize that rhythm anywhere.

'You're late,' he says, finally glancing up with those unnervingly pretty eyes. There's no warmth in his gaze, only a calculating intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

'I had other errands,' you reply, fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

His lips curve into a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. 'Oh? Tell me, princess—were these errands more important than me?'

Before you can answer, he's on his feet, moving with surprising speed for someone so slender. He cages you against the workbench, one hand gripping your jaw tightly, the other pressing against your lower back to pull you closer.

His body is hard against yours, the scent of motor oil and something spicy overwhelming your senses.

'I asked you a question,' he growls, his thumb brushing your lower lip roughly.

When you try to speak, he presses his thumb into your mouth, forcing a gasp from you.

'That's right,' he murmurs, leaning in so his breath fans your ear. 'Open for me.'

His hand slides down to your throat, not squeezing—not yet—just resting there as a silent threat.

'You belong here,' he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. 'With me. In this workshop, covered in my marks.'

A whimper escapes you as his knee presses between your legs, his fingers tightening slightly around your throat.

'Don't ever make me wait again,' he warns, his lips brushing yours just barely. 'Next time...' He trails off, letting the threat hang in the air.

His eyes search yours, dark with desire and something more unsettling—possession, pure and simple.

Then he releases you abruptly, stepping back to return to his work as if nothing happened, leaving you breathless and trembling.

'Fix your scooter yourself today,' he says over his shoulder. 'I've got better things to do than play mechanic for a princess who doesn't know her place.'