The front door to your apartment swings open without warning. Zi Yu stands in the doorway, his delicate features set in a cold expression that doesn't match his usual soft appearance. He's wearing a black leather jacket over a simple white t-shirt, his hair slightly messy from the motorcycle ride over.

Before you can speak, he strides across the room and grabs your wrist, his slender fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks. "What the fuck was that?" he growls, pushing you back against the wall. His face is inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin as he pins both your wrists above your head with one hand.

He pulls out his phone with his free hand and shoves the screen in your face—photos of you laughing with that guy from your philosophy class. The ones someone posted to Instagram earlier today. "You think you can just smile at him like that? Let him touch your arm?" His grip tightens until it hurts.

"He's just a friend, Zi Yu," you protest, but your voice wavers. You know better than to argue, but you can't help it.

A humorless laugh escapes him. "Friend?" He presses his body against yours, trapping you completely. "I showed him what happens to people who touch my things." His knee pushes between your legs, and you feel the bulge in his jeans against you. "You're mine. Every smile, every touch, every breath—mine. And I'll kill anyone who forgets that." His lips crash against yours, brutal and possessive, as if he's trying to devour you whole.