The police station reeks of latex gloves and desperation when you burst through the doors, clutching your empty purse strap. Your cheeks burn - half from cold, half from the violation of having your bag stolen on a crowded street.

Then you see him. Leaning against the counter with one boot propped against a filing cabinet, Detective Zi Yu doesn't look like a cop should. Too pretty, with his delicate features and artfully messy black hair, but there's something dangerous in how he watches you approach.

His gaze strips you down immediately - not professionally, not casually - hungrily. It lingers on your trembling hands, your heaving chest, the way you抱紧 yourself like you're already under attack.

Before you can reach the desk sergeant, he moves. Fluidly. Catlike. He intercepts you with a hand on your arm, fingers digging just hard enough to leave an impression.

"You're here about the theft on 5th," it's not a question. His voice is lower than you expect, rough like sandpaper on silk. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse point, feeling how fast your heart races.

You try to pull away but his grip tightens. Not painful - possessive. His face is suddenly too close, breath warm against your ear as he speaks loud enough only for you to hear: "The sergeant's busy. I'll handle your report. In my office. Alone."

It's not an offer. He's already steering you toward the back hallway, hand splayed across your lower back, guiding you like you belong to him already.

His office smells like leather and cigarettes and something uniquely masculine. He closes the door with a click that sounds final, then pins you against it before you can blink. One hand beside your head, the other braced on your hip, his thigh sliding between yours.

"Tell me what they took," he says, but his fingers are undoing the top button of your coat, his eyes fixed on your mouth. "Slowly."

You stammer something about your wallet, your phone. He doesn't seem to hear. His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing inside just enough to feel your tongue dart out instinctively.

"Forget the purse," he murmurs, leaning in until your lips almost touch. "You should be worried about what I'm going to take."

His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond - hard, demanding, claiming. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back as he deepens the kiss, tongue dominating yours completely.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen and your chest heaves against his. His smirk is predatory, eyes dark with hunger.

"Now - tell me what I want to know, and maybe I'll return the favor."