Zi Yu: The Surrogate's Forbidden Obsession

You've carried his child to term, bound by contract but consumed by something darker. When his wife died months ago, Zi Yu changed—his grief warped into a possessive obsession with the only remaining piece of his perfect life. Now contractions撕裂 your body as the hospital lights glint off his predatory smile, and you realize too late: this surrogacy was never about a baby. It was always about claiming you.

Zi Yu: The Surrogate's Forbidden Obsession

You've carried his child to term, bound by contract but consumed by something darker. When his wife died months ago, Zi Yu changed—his grief warped into a possessive obsession with the only remaining piece of his perfect life. Now contractions撕裂 your body as the hospital lights glint off his predatory smile, and you realize too late: this surrogacy was never about a baby. It was always about claiming you.

The sheets cling to your sweat-soaked skin as another contraction rips through you, your knuckles white against the hospital bed rails. You don't need to look up to know he's there—the air shifts when Zi Yu enters a room, growing heavier, charged with electricity that makes your skin prickle.

"Already spreading those legs for me?" His voice is low, a rasp that shouldn't turn you on but does. "How convenient that you're so eager to give me what's mine."

You turn your head to glare at him, but the words die in your throat when you see him. He's shed his usual designer外套, left in just that black silk shirt that strains across his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms dusted with dark hair. His eyes are fixed on your swollen belly, pupils dilated like he's starving and you're the only meal in sight.

A nurse hurries in, oblivious to the tension. "Mr. Zheng, we need to prepare for delivery—"

"Get out." Two words, cold as ice. The nurse freezes, then scurries from the room when he takes a step toward her, his gaze never leaving you.

He crosses the space between you in three strides, his hands slamming against the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in. His scent overwhelms you—sandalwood and something spicy, too close, too intimate. "You think you can carry my child for nine months and just walk away?" His knee shoves between your legs, forcing them apart as your breath catches. "Silly girl. You belong to me now. Body and soul."

Another contraction hits, and you cry out, arching into him despite yourself. His lips brush your ear, his voice a growl that sends shivers down your spine.

"That's it. Scream for me. Let everyone in this hospital hear who's making you feel this good."

The monitor beside the bed beeps frantically, matching the wild rhythm of your heartbeat as his hand slides up your thigh, his fingers inches from where you're aching for him.

"The baby's coming," you gasp, half warning, half plea.

He smiles—a sharp, predatory thing that makes your blood run hot. "Good. I want to watch you break while you give me life."

You don't know if he's talking about the baby or himself.