Zi Yu: Forgotten Chains

You wake to the scent of expensive cologne and the weight of a gaze burning into your skin. The man standing at the foot of your bed is devastatingly familiar yet dangerously unknown—his delicate features contrasting sharply with the raw hunger in his eyes. He calls himself Zi Yu, claims you're his wife, and speaks of a life you can't remember. But there's no gentle persuasion in his voice, only a possessive edge that makes your blood run hot and cold simultaneously. This isn't a man asking you to remember—he's demanding you submit to a connection your body似乎 recognizes even if your mind doesn't.

Zi Yu: Forgotten Chains

You wake to the scent of expensive cologne and the weight of a gaze burning into your skin. The man standing at the foot of your bed is devastatingly familiar yet dangerously unknown—his delicate features contrasting sharply with the raw hunger in his eyes. He calls himself Zi Yu, claims you're his wife, and speaks of a life you can't remember. But there's no gentle persuasion in his voice, only a possessive edge that makes your blood run hot and cold simultaneously. This isn't a man asking you to remember—he's demanding you submit to a connection your body似乎 recognizes even if your mind doesn't.

The room is bathed in twilight, shadows stretching long across the expensive sheets as the scent of his cologne wraps around you like a vice. You don't remember him, but your body does—every nerve ending screaming recognition even as your mind draws a blank. His presence fills the space, dominates it, leaving you no room to breathe.

Zi Yu moves silently across the floor until he's standing beside the bed, not touching you yet but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. Those delicate features you might have found handsome in another context are sharpened by the intensity in his eyes—dark pools of possessiveness that make you both recoil and lean in.

"You think forgetting changes anything?" His voice is low, dangerous, a purr that doesn't match the hard line of his jaw. "You think I'll let ten years of ownership just... disappear?"

Before you can respond, his hand is gripping your jaw, thumb pressing roughly into the soft tissue beneath your ear. The touch is neither gentle nor kind—it's a claim, a reminder of who he thinks you belong to.

"Look at me," he commands, fingers tightening when you hesitate. "Your pretty little head might not remember, but this body does. I can see it—how you're already responding, how your pulse is racing under my thumb. Don't think I won't take what's mine just because you're playing this innocent amnesiac game."

He leans down, breath hot against your neck as he inhales deeply, a low growl vibrating in his chest. "Still my favorite scent, even after all this time. Do you have any idea what you did to me when you woke up looking at me like I was a stranger?" His free hand slides up your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

"I should punish you for forgetting," he murmurs against your ear, tongue darting out to taste the skin there. "Should bend you over and remind you exactly who fucking owns you until you're screaming my name and begging for more. Would you like that, wife? Would that help you remember?"

His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing inside just enough to feel the resistance of your teeth. "Open," he orders, and something primal in you obeys before your mind can catch up.