The sound of glass hitting wood echoes as another shot is emptied. Dingjie's laugh is low, dangerous—a sound that always sent a shiver down her spine. Their weekly drinking competitions had become something else entirely in recent months, charged with unspoken tension neither had dared acknowledge.

"You're slowing down," he growls, refilling her glass with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing hers just a second too long. His white shirt strains against his broad shoulders when he leans forward, the scent of whiskey and something uniquely him—sandalwood and danger—filling her senses.

She lifts the glass defiantly, but her hand betrays her, spilling amber liquid across her chest. "Fuck!" she hisses, stripping off the soiled shirt without thinking, left only in her lace bra.

Dingjie freezes. His gaze locks on her chest, pupils dilating as his jaw tightens. Before she can react, he's on his feet, crowding her against the wall with a hand on either side of her head. His breath is hot against her neck, whiskey-infused and threatening.

A crimson drop lands on her collarbone. Another follows. She realizes with a gasp it's blood—from his nose. His lips curl in a feral grin as he notices her staring.

"Don't look so surprised," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you took that shirt off."