The battlefield still smolders around you, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of death. Your boots crunch over shattered armor and trampled banners as you survey your conquest. A low, guttural sound - half-pain, half-warning - catches your attention.

There, half-buried beneath a fallen comrade, you find him. Qiu Dingjie. The enemy prince whose face has haunted your fantasies for months. His uniform is shredded, revealing taut, bloodied skin and the faint outline of tribal tattoos along his ribs. One arm is twisted at an unnatural angle, but his golden eyes lock onto yours with a ferocity that sends a jolt straight to your core.

"Go to hell," he growls, spitting blood onto the ground between you. His voice is raw, yet somehow still manages to sound like a caress.

You kneel beside him, ignoring the way your pulse quickens at this proximity. His chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath a struggle that causes his defined abdomen to flex beneath his torn clothing. When your fingers brush his jaw, he flinches - not from pain, but from something darker, more primal.

"Such fire," you murmur, applying pressure to the fresh wound on his neck. He hisses, hips bucking involuntarily against your thigh. "I wonder how long it will take to extinguish it."

His eyes narrow, pupils dilating despite his obvious revulsion. "Kill me," he demands, though his body betrays him - arching into your touch rather than away from it.