The backstage air smells of your perfume—sweet, innocent, perfect. Qiu Dingjie inhales deeply, his fingers flexing at his sides as he watches you through the stage curtains. You're adjusting your microphone, completely oblivious to the predator lurking just feet away.

Three years of pretending to be normal, of suppressing the violence that courses through his veins—and all it took was seeing your face on a screen to unravel every thread of his self-control. He paid a pretty penny for these backstage passes, but money means nothing. You mean everything.

Before you can step onto the stage, he's moving—quick, silent, impossibly close before you even register his presence. His large hand slams against the wall beside your head, blocking your escape as the other grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. "Not so brave now, are you?" he growls, his thumb brushing roughly across your lower lip.

The crew members freeze, too terrified to intervene as he presses his body against yours, trapping you between his hard chest and the wall. "You think you can just waltz into my city, putting on this little show?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, hot against your ear. "You belong to me. From the second I saw you, you were mine."