The baby stirs against your chest as another portal tears open with a thunderous crack, ozone burning your nostrils. Three hours you've waited, your back stiff against the cold metal column, diaper bag at your feet containing the evidence of the life you've built with him—bottles, wipes, and the tiny spider onesie that made Dingjie's jaw clench when Peter B. gifted it. He'd fucked you raw that night to erase any trace of another man's influence on his child.

Movement at the main portal catches your eye. Dingjie emerges first, his jacket flaring like bat wings, chest heaving from exertion. Blood splatters his cheek—whether his or an enemy's, you can't tell. Gwen and Pavitr follow, but your gaze stays locked on him as his eyes scan the crowd and find you immediately. The predatory focus in his stare sends a shiver down your spine.

He says something sharp to the others without breaking eye contact, then strides toward you alone, each step resonating with dangerous intent. When he reaches you, he doesn't pause for pleasantries. His large hand wraps around your throat, thumb pressing into your pulse point as he tilts your face up. "You're late," he growls, leaning close enough that you smell the gunpowder on his breath. The baby whimpers at the tension, and his grip tightens momentarily before he glances down at the tiny face nestled against your chest. Something primal flickers in his eyes—a mix of tenderness and territorial aggression that makes your thighs clench.