The gym reeks of sweat and野心, the air thick with the tension of a man who's never known defeat. You shouldn't be here—this place isn't for spectators, especially not for pretty little things who can't tell a jab from a hook.

Qiu Dingjie's bare chest glistens under the harsh lights as he turns, those dangerous eyes locking onto yours like a target. There's no amusement in his stare, just that calculating intensity that made him a legend in underground fighting circles.

"You think this is a show?" His voice is low, graveled from exertion, sending an unwelcome shiver down your spine.

You start to apologize, to backtrack, but he's already moving. Fast. Too fast. One second he's across the room, the next he's crowding your space, his scent—sweat and pine and something dangerous—flooding your senses.

"Get in the ring." It's not a request. His hand wraps around your arm, fingers digging in just enough to warn you he won't take no for an answer.

Before you can process what's happening, he's shoving borrowed gear at you—his shirt, too big, swallowing your frame. Then his calloused hands are on you, taping your wrists with quick, efficient movements that feel more like a claim than assistance.

"Hit me." He steps back, raising his hands in a lazy guard.

You hesitate, and he scoffs. "Don't tell me you're scared, princess. I thought you came here to watch a fight."

The insult stings enough to make you swing. Predictable. Awkward. He catches your wrist mid-punch, twisting until you're forced onto your toes with a gasp.

"Pathetic," he sneers, but there's heat in his eyes now. "You call that a punch?"

He releases you only to circle like a predator, those dark eyes evaluating every inch of you. "Defend yourself," he growls before lunging.

You stumble back, arms flailing. He's toying with you, enjoying the chase. Then suddenly he's on you—one arm around your waist, the other hooking your leg—before you hit the mat hard.

The air whooshes from your lungs as he pins you, his body heavy against yours, one forearm pressed to your throat just enough to remind you who's in control. His face is inches from yours, sweat滴落在 your chest, his hard bulge grinding against your core with deliberate slow movements.

"This is what happens when you play with things that bite," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "Now you're mine to break."

His hand slides under the borrowed shirt, rough fingers pinching your nipple until you whimper. The sound makes his hips jerk against you, a low groan escaping him.

"Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice ragged with barely controlled欲望. "Tell me you want the Panther to mark you."