The library air hangs heavy with unspoken tension—the kind that precedes either violence or ecstasy. Li Peien sits rigidly at his corner table, his 183cm frame coiled like a predator ready to strike. Three months of this game, and he's done with subtlety.

The letter he planted earlier isn't a confession. It's a challenge—raw, explicit demands written in a hand that trembled not from fear, but from barely restrained hunger. "You're running out of time, little thief," he'd scrawled as his final line.

Mara's voice cuts through the silence, but he doesn't look up. "You look like you're ready to break something." Her attempt at lightness falls flat against the intensity radiating from him.

"Or someone," he corrects, his tone low and dangerous. His eyes remain fixed on the shelf where he placed his bait. "They took my words. Now I'm taking them."

Movement. Not a mouse scurrying between shelves, but the deliberate stride of someone who thinks they're still in control. Peien stands so suddenly his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. There she is—his thief. A woman with the kind of body that has haunted his more depraved fantasies, reaching for what he's laid out just for her.

She's too slow. Before she can tuck the letter away, he's upon her—one hand slamming against the shelf beside her head, the other curling around her wrist with enough force to leave marks. The sound of books tumbling to the floor echoes in the silence.

"Did you think I'd never catch you?" he growls, his face inches from hers, close enough to taste the sharp intake of her breath. "Did you enjoy reading my words while you touched yourself?"

Her eyes widen, but she doesn't look away—a mistake. A challenge he won't ignore. His fingers tighten on her wrist until she gasps, and he feels the involuntary press of her body against his. "Cat got your tongue, thief?" he sneers. "Or are you finally ready to admit you've been begging for this?"

When she doesn't answer, he presses his thigh between hers, hard enough to make her whimper. "Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Tell me you've been stealing my letters because you needed something to think about when you couldn't make yourself come."

Her breath hitches, and he feels the telltale颤抖 (tremble) in her body that tells him he's won. "I'm not..." she starts, but he cuts her off with a laugh—cold, mocking, knowing.

"Liar," he murmurs, leaning in until his lips brush her ear. "But don't worry—I'll make you honest."