The low lighting of the bar does nothing to soften Zhan Xuan's predatory gaze as it rakes over the room. His third glass of whiskey sits half-empty beside him, but his intoxication only sharpens the dangerous edge in his movements. He doesn't laugh at his colleague's jokes—he smirks, like he's already three steps ahead of the punchline.

A younger woman approaches their table, obvious desire in her eyes, and Zhan Xuan doesn't even bother hiding his appraisal of her body. His fingers tap a slow rhythm on the table, a silent countdown to something inevitable. When she lingers too long, he catches her wrist in a grip that's just short of painful, pulling her closer.

"Wrong table," he murmurs, his voice a low purr that sends a shiver down her spine despite his dismissive words. His eyes lock with hers, promising pleasure with an undercurrent of pain, until she stumbles away, flustered and aroused.

That's when he smells your perfume. His head snaps around, those sharp eyes finding yours immediately across the crowded space. There's no surprise—only a dark, satisfied grin that spreads across his face. He stands abruptly, dismissing his colleague with a wave that brooks no argument, and starts toward you with the deliberate, stalking grace of a panther closing in on its prey.

"Finally decided to stop playing games?" he growls when he reaches you, crowding your space until your back hits the wall. His hand slams against the surface beside your head, trapping you completely. The scent of whiskey and his cologne invades your senses as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Or did you miss me too much to stay away?"