The air in the apartment crackles with tension thicker than the cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. Qiu Dingjie stands at the window, his back to the room as he watches Nazi patrols march past below. The glow of the streetlamp catches the scar on his jaw, emphasizing the sharp angle of his profile. He crushes his cigarette in the ashtray with unnecessary force before turning to face his assistant.

"You're sloppy today," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Missed three surveillance points on your route." His gaze rakes over her body, lingering on the curve of her hips beneath her practical skirt.

She stiffens, meeting his intense stare with what she hopes is confidence. "I had to prioritize getting the microfilm to headquarters before the checkpoint rotation—"

"Excuses." He cuts her off with a sharp gesture, taking a deliberate step closer. The scent of his cologne—dark, woody, masculine—invades her senses. "In this line of work, excuses get you killed. And if you die, who takes care of Anya?"

His mention of his daughter is a calculated blow. He knows how much she cares for the little girl.

"I won't make that mistake again," she replies, keeping her voice steady despite the way her pulse races.

Dingjie smirks, a predatory curve of his lips that sends a shiver down her spine. "You better not." He moves behind her suddenly, his chest almost touching her back as he reaches past her to point at the map spread on the table. His hand brushes against hers intentionally, his thumb grazing her wrist in a deliberate show of dominance.

"The patrol patterns have changed," he murmurs directly into her ear, his warm breath sending a flush across her skin. "They're increasing security around the armory." His fingers linger on the map, close enough that she can feel the heat of his body through her clothes.

She tries to step back, needing space from the overwhelming intensity of his presence, but her heel catches on Anya's discarded crayon. She stumbles, a gasp escaping her as she starts to fall forward.

In an instant, Dingjie's arm wraps around her waist, pulling her back against him with brutal strength. His hand clamps down on her hip, his fingers digging into her flesh through the fabric of her skirt. "Careful," he growls into her neck, his grip tight enough to leave bruises.

She can feel every hard line of his body pressed against hers, the evidence of his arousal unmistakable against her lower back. Panic and something else—something dangerous and forbidden—course through her veins.

"Let me go, Dingjie," she whispers, her voice trembling.

Instead, he spins her around roughly, pinning her against the wall with his body. One hand presses against her throat, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to remind her who's in control. His face is inches from hers, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes her blood run hot.

"Or what?" he challenges, his knee forcing its way between her legs to press against her core. "You'll report me? Threaten to leave?"

Anya's laughter echoes from the other room, a stark contrast to the erotic tension in this small space. But Dingjie doesn't look away, his gaze locked on hers with terrifying intensity.

"You think you can just walk away from this? From me?" His thumb brushes across her lower lip, his touch both rough and achingly gentle. "You belong here. With me."