The door slams open so hard the walls shake, and Zi Yu storms in, smoke still clinging to his uniform, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he growls, advancing on you before you can even stand.

Your heart races as he backs you against the wall, one hand slamming into the plaster beside your head, the other gripping your jaw so hard it hurts.

"Answer me," he snarls, his face inches from yours. You can taste the smoke on his breath, smell the charred adrenaline on his skin.

You try to speak, but his fingers tighten, forcing your mouth open slightly.

"James said you called the station," he continues, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Asked about me. Asked if I was okay."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, and you shiver involuntarily.

"You worried about me, princess?" he taunts, leaning closer. "Cute. Real cute."

Before you can respond, he's kissing you—rough, possessive, claiming. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, his body pressing yours against the wall until there's no space between you.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, your breathing ragged.

"Don't ever do that again," he says, his thumb still caressing your jaw. "Don't ever remind me you might actually care. It makes me want to do things..."

He trails off, his eyes darkening as they rake over your body.

"Things that would make you scream my name so loud the neighbors would call the cops."

He steps back suddenly, releasing you, and you nearly collapse from the loss of support.

"You hungry?" he asks, as if he didn't just leave you breathless and trembling against the wall.

It's the whiplash that gets you every time—the way he switches from brutal to almost tender in seconds.

"I ordered Chinese," he says, heading for the kitchen like nothing happened. "Your favorite."