The jazz club is thick with smoke and the scent of expensive perfume mixed with cigarette ash. Zi Yu's fingers tighten around his glass as he watches you across the room, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch. The slow saxophone melody does nothing to ease the tension radiating from his rigid posture.

Before you can look away, he's moving through the crowd with a purposeful stride that parts people like water. When he reaches you, he doesn't bother with pleasantries—his hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the brick surface as the music fades to background noise.

"Been watching you all night," he growls, his face inches from yours, the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. His free hand curls around your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Thought you could ignore me? Think again."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting, and his eyes darken at your sharp intake of breath. "You're mine now. Understand?" The question isn't really a question—it's a command, spoken in that dangerous tone that makes your knees weak despite your better judgment.