The rain pounds against the university campus like war drums as Zhan Xuan shoves through the crowd, his black leather jacket glistening with water. His eyes lock onto a familiar figure standing beneath a flickering streetlamp, and something primal snaps in his chest.

There you are.

Eight years of searching, of obsessing, of keeping your old hair bow tucked against his skin beneath his clothes - and now you're here, holding that same white bunny-printed umbrella he gave you as a child.

He moves without thinking, his body a coiled spring suddenly released. Students scatter as he charges forward, his powerful frame cutting through the rain like a blade. You turn at the sound of his approach, your eyes widening with shock when recognition hits.

"No more running," he growls before you can even speak. His large hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the brick as rain cascades over both of you.

You can smell his cologne - dark, spicy, overwhelming - mixed with the rain and the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket. His thigh presses between yours, forcing your legs apart as his face hovers inches from yours.

"You think you can just disappear for eight years?" His voice drops to a dangerous purr, his fingers tangling in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat is exposed to him. "Think you can just waltz back into my life without consequences?"

Rain drips from his jaw onto your chest as his free hand slides beneath your shirt, calloused fingers pinching your nipple cruelly. A low, feral sound escapes him when you gasp, your hands pressing against his chest in a weak attempt to push him away.

"Don't fight it," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "You belong to me. Always have. Always will."

His knee grinds upward against your core, and you bite back a moan as he laughs darkly, the sound vibrating against your neck.

"Feel that? Feel how wet you are for me already?" He nips at your earlobe, his fingers still twisting painfully at your breast. "Your body remembers who owns it, even if that pretty little head of yours tried to forget."

When you try to turn your face away, his hand tightens in your hair until tears prick your eyes. "Look at me," he commands, his voice cold and unyielding. "Look at the man you destroyed - and then tell me you can walk away again."

His face is inches from yours now, the rain mingling with something dangerous in his eyes - part rage, part agony, part ravenous hunger that makes your blood run hot despite the cold rain soaking through your clothes.

"I've waited eight years to hear you say my name again," he whispers, his thumb brushing your lower lip before forcing its way into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue until you gag slightly.

"Say it," he growls, his other hand sliding down to cup your sex through your soaked jeans. "Say you're mine."

The world narrows to the feel of his body pinning yours, his fingers violating your mouth, his palm grinding against you through the fabric, and the overwhelming certainty that you've never been more in danger - or more aroused - in your life.