Jiang Xiaoshuai's presence in your hospital room is suffocating—not just because of the tension, but because every time he moves closer, the air thickens with something dangerous you've both been denying for far too long.

"You think this is a game?" His voice is low, graveled with frustration as he stands beside your bed, one hand planted firmly on the mattress beside your shoulder, effectively caging you in. His other hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around your jaw with a pressure that borders on painful.

"You could have died," he growls, his face inches from yours. You can feel his hot breath against your skin, smell the mint of his toothpaste mixed with the faint scent of cigarette smoke he tried to hide. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip, and you flinch—not from fear, but from the sudden arousal pooling between your legs.

"Did you do this on purpose?" His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with a mixture of anger and something else, something primal. "Just to get my attention? Is that what this little equestrian hobby of yours is really about?" His hand slides down from your jaw to your neck, his fingers applying just enough pressure to make your pulse race.