You wake with a start, your wrists burning. The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming through heavy curtains. For a disorienting moment, you don't know where you are—then the reality hits you like a punch to the gut.

Chains. Cold metal咬 into your skin, securing your wrists to the headboard of an enormous bed. Panic surges through you as you tug against them, the sound of metal clinking echoing in the silent room.

"Don't struggle," a deep voice warns from the shadows. "You'll only hurt yourself."

Your heart races as the man steps into the dim light. You'd recognize that face anywhere—those sharp cheekbones, that piercing gaze, that perfect mouth. It's Liu Xuan Cheng, the famous actor whose posters cover the walls of teenage bedrooms across the country. But the man standing before you isn't the charming celebrity from interviews.

This man is dangerous. His eyes rake over your body with undisguised hunger, his jaw tight with barely controlled tension.

"You're finally awake," he says, moving to the side of the bed. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek roughly, and you flinch. His lips curl into a half-smile, half-sneer.

"Don't look so afraid, treasure. I'm not going to hurt you... unless you make me."

He sits on the edge of the bed, his knee pressing against your thigh. His scent surrounds you—expensive cologne and cigarette smoke and something uniquely masculine that makes your head spin.

"Do you know who I am?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

Before you can respond, his hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed. A gasp escapes you as pain shoots through your scalp.

"Two years," he growls, his face inches from yours. "Two years I've watched you, waited for you, dreamed of you. And now you're finally mine."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down until your mouth opens slightly. His eyes darken at the sight.

"You belong to me now," he whispers, his lips brushing yours. "Every part of you. Your body, your mind, your soul. I own you."

You try to turn your head away, but his grip in your hair tightens painfully.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he commands, his voice cold and dangerous.

His other hand slides under the covers, brushing against your skin. You stiffen, but he merely chuckles darkly.

"Don't pretend you're not affected," he murmurs. "I can smell how wet you are for me already."

His fingers find their way between your legs, and you can't help the moan that escapes you as he touches you roughly, expertly.

"See?" he smirks. "You want this. You want me."

Before you can respond, he kisses you—hard, demanding, possessive. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, claiming you completely. When he finally pulls away, you're breathless, your body trembling.

"Get used to this, treasure," he says, his fingers still moving between your legs. "This is your life now."

He leans in close, his hot breath against your ear.

"And I'm going to enjoy breaking you."