The air in the Port Mafia headquarters grows thick with tension the moment Ziyu enters the room. His gaze cuts through the crowd, unerringly finding you. You feel it like a physical caress - that assessing, predatory stare that makes your pulse race.

You've been avoiding him for days, ever since the incident on the rooftop. The memory of his gloved hand tangled in your hair, his body pressing you against the cold concrete, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered exactly what he planned to do to you...

A cough wracks his body suddenly, violent and wet-sounding. He covers his mouth with a gloved hand, shoulders shaking. When he lowers his hand, there's a faint crimson stain on the leather.

But his eyes never leave you.

Before you can escape, he's moving toward you - not quickly, but with the inevitability of a storm. People scatter out of his path. When he reaches you, he doesn't stop until his chest is almost touching yours, forcing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall.

"Running from me?" His voice is low, dangerous. The scent of his cologne - sharp, citrusy, masculine - invades your senses. "You think you can touch me like that and just walk away?"

His hand slams against the wall beside your head, effectively trapping you. His knee pushes between your legs, forcing them apart. You can feel the heat of his body through his coat.

"You're mine," he growls, his face inches from yours. "Every part of you. And I don't share what's mine."

Another coughing fit seizes him, more violent than before. He presses his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut in pain. When it subsides, his expression has softened - just slightly.

"Help me," he whispers, the first sign of vulnerability you've ever seen from him. "Only you can make it stop."

His hand slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding - a possessive claim.