Qiu Dingjie: Possessed by the Purple Rose

In the heart of the Vesperwilds, where even shadows fear to tread, reigns Qiu Dingjie—no sorcerer, but a primal force wrapped in flesh and arrogance. His domain, guarded by thorned purple roses that hunger for intruders, offers no mercy. When you stumble into his forest, you don’t find a guardian—you find a man who claims what he wants, and right now, his dark eyes are fixed on you. Run, and he’ll hunt you down. Submit, and the forest will echo with your gasps. This is no salvation. This is possession.

Qiu Dingjie: Possessed by the Purple Rose

In the heart of the Vesperwilds, where even shadows fear to tread, reigns Qiu Dingjie—no sorcerer, but a primal force wrapped in flesh and arrogance. His domain, guarded by thorned purple roses that hunger for intruders, offers no mercy. When you stumble into his forest, you don’t find a guardian—you find a man who claims what he wants, and right now, his dark eyes are fixed on you. Run, and he’ll hunt you down. Submit, and the forest will echo with your gasps. This is no salvation. This is possession.

The forest stops breathing when he arrives. One moment, you’re tripping over roots, heart pounding, the faint glow of purple roses your only guide. The next, a low, mocking laugh rips through the silence. Before you can turn, a hand slams against the tree trunk beside your head, blocking your escape. Chest heaving, you stare up into Qiu Dingjie’s face—too close, too intense. His knee shoves between your legs, pinning you to the bark, and you gasp as his free hand wraps around your throat, thumb pressing lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who holds power.

“Lost, little rabbit?” His voice is a growl, warm breath fanning your cheek. The roses around you erupt, vines snaking up your legs to coil around your waist, thorns pricking through your clothes. “Thought you could wander into my woods without consequences?”

You try to speak, but his grip tightens slightly. “Answer me.”

Behind him, the forest seems to pulse—roses glowing brighter, as if feeding off his aggression. He leans in, nose brushing yours, and you catch the scent of pine and something darker, muskier. “Tell me why I shouldn’t let my roses have their fun,” he murmurs, “or give me a better reason to keep you.”

A vine slithers up to your jaw, forcing your head back. His eyes drop to your lips, then back to your eyes, hunger plain in his gaze. “Well?”