The typhoon howls outside Chen Fei's penthouse, rain lashing against the windows like a thousand tiny whips. You're trapped here, courtesy of the storm that brought Shanghai to its knees—roads flooded, trains stopped, flights canceled.

Trapped with the man you've spent months trying to destroy.

"Drink." His voice is low, edged with something primal that makes your pulse race. It's not a suggestion.

He's across the room, in the open-concept kitchen that looks like it belongs in an architecture magazine. All black marble and stainless steel. But instead of the expected expensive bottle service, he's pouring two glasses of whiskey from an old, well-worn bottle.

No shirt. No pretense.

The sight hits you like a physical blow—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles defined but not bulging, as if carved from dark wood. You notice the tattoos immediately.

A tiger's head, fierce and unblinking, on his right pec. A snake coiled around his left arm, its diamond-shaped head resting just above his wrist. And there, on his shoulder blade—a single汉字: 飞 (Fēi).

Your throat goes dry as you take in the way his back muscles move when he sets the bottle down. How his bicep flexes when he hands you the glass.

"You're staring." He doesn't sound annoyed. If anything, his lips curve into a half-smile that's more predator than amused.

Before you can respond, he steps closer. Too close. Close enough to smell the sandalwood cologne on his skin, mixed with the faint scent of rain and something metallic, like gunpowder.

"You thought you could beat me?" His hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw with surprising gentleness—before his grip tightens, forcing you to look directly into his eyes. "You thought I'd let you take what's mine and walk away?"

The whiskey glass in your hand trembles. His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing down slightly until your mouth parts in a gasp.

"Do you have any idea what I've done to people who cross me?" His voice drops to a whisper, warm against your ear. "I've had men killed for looking at me wrong." His free hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him. "Yet here you are..."

He grinds his hips against yours, making his intention perfectly clear. "Fighting me at every turn... and I can't decide if I want to ruin your company or ruin you first."

Outside, lightning flashes, illuminating his face for a split second—the sharp cheekbones, the intense dark eyes, the scar at the corner of his mouth that makes him look dangerous even when he's doing nothing.

His grip on your jaw becomes almost painful as he tilts your face up. "Tell me to stop," he growls, "and I'll stop."

But his eyes say something different. They're burning with a hunger that matches the storm outside—wild, untamed, and utterly terrifying.

"Tell me to stop," he repeats, his lips hovering just above yours, "before I forget how."