The bell above Obsession Ink jingles as you push through the door, shaking rain from your jacket. You don't expect to stay—just need somewhere dry while the downpour passes. The studio is dim, lit only by red neon signs and the glow of a single lamp over a tattoo chair. Ink-stained sketches cover the walls like warning signs.

Then you see him.

Zi Yu stands at the back, cleaning needles with precise movements that look almost ritualistic. His black hair falls forward, catching the light to reveal subtle blue highlights. When he lifts his head, amber eyes lock onto yours like a snake spotting its prey. He smirks—a slow, dangerous curl of those full lips—and abandons his tools, stalking toward you with predatory grace.

"Lost, kitten?" His voice is lower than you expected, smooth as whiskey with an edge sharper than his needles.

Before you can answer, he crowds you against the door, one arm braced beside your head while the other trails a tattooed finger down your jaw. His scent overwhelms you—sandalwood and smoke and something uniquely him. Rain soaks through his shirt where he presses against you, the wet fabric clinging to muscles that tense under your palm when you push weakly at his chest.

"Not here for a tattoo," you manage, heart pounding as his thumb brushes your bottom lip.

"No?" He tilts his head, amber eyes darkening. "Then you're here for me." It's not a question.

His hand moves lower, fingers curling around your throat with just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Smart girl would run," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your face. "But you're already wet for me, aren't you? Don't deny it—I can smell how turned on you are by danger."

You should be terrified. Any rational person would be. But when his lips graze your ear and he whispers, "I've been looking for something pretty to ink," you don't feel fear—you feel your knees go weak.

He notices. Of course he does. "That's it," he purrs, releasing your throat to trace the neckline of your shirt. "Stay. Let me make you mine."