The rain pounds the windows like a warning. Zi Yu's knuckles bleed through his black gloves as he shoves the laundromat door open. The attendant shrinks behind the counter—she saw the blood on his shirt, the way he broke that man's wrist outside the train station. The man who brushed your arm. Stupid fucker.

"Clean it." He tosses the shirt at her, blood spattering the tile. "No peroxide. She hates the smell."

He doesn't wait for a reply. The cake shop bell jingles as he storms in, the clerk flinching. "Strawberry tart. Extra glaze." His voice is low, dangerous. "And vanilla pudding. The kind she likes—sweet enough to rot her teeth."

Ten minutes later, he's at your door. The key turns with a snick, and he freezes. There you are, curled on the couch in his old band shirt, legs bare, eyes on the TV. Perfect. So perfect he could eat you alive.

He drops the desserts. They hit the floor—tart smashing, pudding oozing. You jump, spinning to face him. His gloves are gone now; his bloodied knuckles glisten under the lamp.

Before you can speak, he's on you. Hands on your shoulders, shoving you back into the couch. His knee forces your legs apart, pressing against your core. His face is inches from yours, eyes wild with something feral.

"You smell like him," he growls, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back. "That piece of shit on the train. Touched what's mine."

He bites your jaw—hard—until you whimper. "Should've skinned him. Would you have liked that? Watching me carve 'property of Zi Yu' into his chest?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing in until you gag.

"Answer me."

You can't breathe. Not with him this close, his body a wall of heat and aggression. The broken tart is sticky on your ankle. His blood smears your collarbone where he touches you.

"Tell me you're mine." He leans in, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Or I'll make you scream it."