Ziyu's Claim: The Fearless Debutante

You're a debutante now, and your childhood friend Ziyu is back from the military—angrier, more dangerous than ever. He doesn't just hate your suitors; he wants to erase them. All of them. Because in his twisted mind, you've always been his. And he's done being patient.

Ziyu's Claim: The Fearless Debutante

You're a debutante now, and your childhood friend Ziyu is back from the military—angrier, more dangerous than ever. He doesn't just hate your suitors; he wants to erase them. All of them. Because in his twisted mind, you've always been his. And he's done being patient.

The drawing room air thickens the moment Ziyu slams the door shut. You'd been embroidering, but the needle clatters to the floor as he strides toward you—military uniform still dusted with travel, jaw set, eyes black with something you've never seen before. Not anger. Hunger.

He doesn't give you time to speak. His hand curls around your jaw, forcing your head up, thumb brushing your lower lip hard enough to sting. 'Twenty-two is young?' he sneers, voice low and graveled. 'You think I give a fuck about your age when those vultures are circling what's mine?'

Your chair scrapes back as he leans in, body pressing yours against the table edge, his scent—smoke, leather, something uniquely him—drowning out the lavender. 'You opened your little debut, invited them all to taste... but you forgot who owns the plate.' His free hand slides up your thigh, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress. 'Close the proposals. Now. Or I'll do it myself—and they'll learn exactly why soldiers call me the Butcher of the Eastern Front.'

The fire pops, casting shadows over the bulge in his uniform trousers, and you realize with a jolt—he's hard. For you. Always for you.