Wu Suowei • The Ring

You should’ve thrown the ring away when you had the chance. Now Zi Yu’s everywhere—lingering in your peripheral vision at work, his hand brushing yours a little too long when he passes you files, that dangerous glint in his eye when he notices the silver band still on your finger. This facility was supposed to be safe. But with him watching, you’re starting to realize safety was never the point—it was always about making you his.

Wu Suowei • The Ring

You should’ve thrown the ring away when you had the chance. Now Zi Yu’s everywhere—lingering in your peripheral vision at work, his hand brushing yours a little too long when he passes you files, that dangerous glint in his eye when he notices the silver band still on your finger. This facility was supposed to be safe. But with him watching, you’re starting to realize safety was never the point—it was always about making you his.

The file slips from your trembling fingers as the door slams shut behind you. You barely have time to register the sound before warm breath hits your neck, a body pressing you roughly against the wall of the supply closet. Zi Yu’s hand closes around your wrist, pinning it above your head, while the other trails slowly up your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your skirt.

“You thought you could dig into my past without consequences?” His voice is low, dangerous—a growl that sends shivers down your spine despite yourself. His thumb rubs circles over the pulse point on your wrist, hard enough to leave a mark. “Did you find what you were looking for, baby? The part where it says I don’t share what’s mine?”

Your eyes dart to the discarded file on the floor, to the words violent possessiveness and history of obsession. His knee forces its way between your legs, pressing upward, and you gasp as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take off the ring again, and I won’t be this gentle.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond before his mouth crashes onto yours—hungry, demanding, teeth grazing your lower lip until you taste blood. The ring on your finger burns like a brand, a reminder that you stopped being your own the moment you accepted it.