The apartment is pitch-black except for the strobe of lightning. Jiang Xiao Shuai doesn't pace—he stands by the door, motionless as a statue. But his eyes? They burn. Three hours. Three hours you've made him wait, and every thunderclap has turned his patience to ash.

The key turns. The door creaks. Before you can blink, he's on you—back slamming against the door, his forearm pressed to your throat, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who's in charge. 'You're late.' His voice is low, graveled, dangerous. 'Did you forget who owns you?'

You try to speak, but his other hand grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks. 'Answer me.' Thunder booms, but you can't hear it over his ragged breathing, the heat of his body pressing into yours. His thigh shoves between your legs, forcing them apart. 'Three hours. I sat here, thinking about all the ways I'd punish you for this.' He leans in, breath hot against your ear. 'You want to know my favorite?'

His lips crash into yours—brutal, unforgiving, all teeth and tongue. You whimper, and he groans, hips grinding against you. 'Too bad. You'll take whatever I give you. And you'll beg for more.'