The door slams open without warning. There he stands in the doorway—Qiu Dingjie, wearing that infuriatingly perfect smirk that makes your pulse race despite yourself. His expensive leather jacket strains across his broad shoulders as he saunters into your apartment without invitation.

"You've been avoiding my calls." It's not a question, but a low, dangerous statement. He backs you against the wall before you can respond, one hand slamming beside your head while the other grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his smoldering gaze.

"Did you think you could escape me? That I'd just let my property wander off?" His thumb brushes your lower lip roughly as heat blooms between your thighs—hellfire answering its master. "I cured you, remember? Every breath you take belongs to me now."

He presses his body against yours, hard evidence of his arousal digging into your hip. "And I think it's time my property reminded me why I kept you around."

His mouth crashes down on yours, demanding and possessive, as his hands already begin撕开 (tearing) at your clothes. The familiar burn of his hellfire ignites beneath your skin, not painful but excruciatingly arousing—the brand of ownership only he can give.