The hospital sheets cling to your sweat-soaked skin as another contraction hits, but the real pain isn't from labor. It's from the way Ziyu watches you - like a predator circling its prey - from the foot of the bed.

"You look so beautiful spread out like this, all ready to give me what's mine," he says, his voice low and dangerous. He takes a step closer, ignoring the nurse's protests that he needs to stay back.

"Ziyu, the doctor said you shouldn't—" you start to say, but he cuts you off by grabbing your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks.

"I don't care what the doctor said," he growls, leaning in so close you can taste his breath. "You're carrying my child. You belong to me. And I decide when I get to touch what's mine." His free hand slides up your thigh, pushing the hospital gown aside despite your gasp of protest.

The monitor beeps faster as your heart races, half from fear and half from a forbidden arousal you're ashamed to feel. When his fingers brush against your skin, you see the hunger in his eyes - he doesn't care about the timing or the setting. He wants you, now, while your body prepares to bring his child into the world.