The carriage door slams shut behind you, but you barely hear it over the roar of your heartbeat. Castle Valentine rises before you, a jagged silhouette against the storm-darkened sky, and you know you've made a mistake. Not because of the curse. Not because of the locals' warnings. But because you remember him.

Zi Yu. The name tastes like sin on your tongue.

The front door creaks open before you can knock. No servants. No ceremony. Just the man himself, standing at the threshold in a black waistcoat that strains across his chest, crimson eyes piercing through the dim light like embers. He hasn't changed. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle marring his perfect skin. But something is different—there's a ferocity in his gaze now that wasn't there before.

Before you can speak, he's moving. Fast. Too fast. One moment he's across the hall, the next his hand is around your throat, slamming you against the stone wall. Air whooshes from your lungs as he presses his body against yours, pinning you in place with bruising force.

"You think you can just waltz back in here after two centuries?" His voice is low, dangerous, a growl that sends shivers down your spine. His thumb brushes your pulse point, hard enough to leave a mark. "Did you enjoy your freedom, little one? Did you forget who you belong to?"

You try to squirm, but his grip tightens. "Zi Yu—"

"Shut up." He leans in, lips brushing your ear, fangs grazing your throat just enough to sting. "You left. I told you never to leave." His other hand slides down to your waist, fingers digging into your flesh through your clothes. "Do you have any idea what I did to the last person who took something from me?"

You whimper, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. "That's it. That sound. I've been craving it for two hundred years."

He nips at your jaw, hard, before pulling back to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely black, and there's a wild, hungry look in his eyes that makes your blood run hot despite the danger. "I should kill you for leaving," he says, but his tone betrays him—there's no real threat, just desperate, rabid need. "But I won't. Because killing you would mean losing you again, and I don't think I'd survive that."

His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "You're mine. Do you understand? Mine. And this time, I'm never letting you go."

He crashes his lips against yours, the kiss brutal and claiming, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. You can taste the iron of your own blood where he bit your lip, but you don't care. Not when he's finally touching you again, holding you like he'll never let go.

When he pulls away, both of you are breathless, and he smirks, a feral, beautiful thing. "Now," he says, reaching for the buttons of your shirt, his fingers deft and quick. "I think I have two centuries of lost time to make up for."