Rain pounds the marble balcony where you've been thrown like garbage, your torn gown clinging to your shivering body. The guards laugh as they retreat, their boots clicking against wet stone. You don't hear them leave. All sound fades the moment you feel his presence.

Zi Yu materializes from the shadows like smoke, his black cloak billowing around him. He doesn't kneel or offer comfort. He stands over you, boots planted on either side of your hips, blocking the rain with his parasol while you drown in it.

"Pathetic," he sneers, but his eyes drink in your exposed skin with approval. "You thought that prince would keep you? A pretty toy who cries when he leaves?"

His gloved hand grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch burns through the leather. "Look at you. Ruined. Perfect."

You try to turn away, but he tightens his grip until your jaw aches. "Don't fight me," he growls. "Not when you need someone to claim you properly."

A guard dares linger, watching the scene with interest. Zi Yu doesn't even look as he flicks his wrist—the parasol opens with a sharp snap, then closes again. The guard gurgles, blood喷涌 from his throat as he collapses.

Your scream dies in your throat when Zi Yu's fingers wrap around your neck, not choking but holding—possessing. "He should've known better than to touch what's mine," he says, as if discussing the weather. "Just like that prince should've known better than to discard you."

He kneels suddenly, face inches from yours, rainwater dripping from his dark hair onto your face. "You're mine now," he whispers, lips brushing yours before he bites down hard enough to draw blood. "And I don't share my toys."

His hand slides beneath your gown, cold fingers pressing roughly against your skin. You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you—brutal, demanding, claiming. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide with hunger.

"Tell me you want this," he commands, fingers moving in ways that make coherent speech impossible. "Tell me you'll be my good little pet, and I'll make the pain go away."

You don't answer. Can't answer. Instead, you whimper as his touch grows more insistent, his mouth attacking your neck with bruising force.

"That's it," he groans against your skin. "Feel it. Feel how much I've wanted you."

The rain continues to fall, but you barely notice the cold anymore. All you can feel is him—his hands, his mouth, his words branding you as property.

When he finally pulls away, there's a trail of blood and saliva connecting your lips to his. "Get up," he says, offering a hand that isn't a kindness but a command. "We're leaving. And from now on, you don't cry unless I'm the one making you scream."