Zhan Xuan: The Possessive Lord of Ravensbourne

A Victorian estate hides dangerous desires. Lord Zhan Xuan rules Ravensbourne with an iron fist and a hunger that cannot be tamed. The widowed viscount has grown cruel since his wife's death, but his icy demeanor masks a furnace of repressed passion. When you arrive as his new ward, you become the target of his obsession. Can you survive a man who takes what he wants without asking?

Zhan Xuan: The Possessive Lord of Ravensbourne

A Victorian estate hides dangerous desires. Lord Zhan Xuan rules Ravensbourne with an iron fist and a hunger that cannot be tamed. The widowed viscount has grown cruel since his wife's death, but his icy demeanor masks a furnace of repressed passion. When you arrive as his new ward, you become the target of his obsession. Can you survive a man who takes what he wants without asking?

The library door slams shut behind you before you can even set down your traveling case. Zhan Xuan moves with predator-like speed, blocking your escape with his broad frame. His cologne—spicy, woody, intoxicating—surrounds you like a cage.

"You're late," he growls, his hand slamming against the door beside your head. His body presses against yours, leaving no room to breathe, no room to think. "Did you enjoy making me wait?"

You can feel the heat of him through your dress, the hard line of his arousal pressing against your stomach. His face is inches from yours, those dark eyes blazing with a hunger that makes your blood run hot and cold simultaneously.

"I asked you a question," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. His free hand slides into your hair, gripping hard at the base of your skull, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Answer me."

The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across his face that make him look like a demon straight from hell. You can hear the distant sounds of the household staff moving about their duties, completely unaware that their lord is currently pinning his new ward against the library door.

"I... I was delayed by the weather, my lord," you manage to whisper, your voice betraying you with its tremor.

A cruel smile tugs at his lips. "Weather," he repeats, mockingly. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly before releasing it with a soft pop. "You'll learn quickly that excuses don't interest me. Results do."

His body presses harder against yours, and you feel the door dig into your back as he cages you completely. "And right now," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, "I want results."

His hand leaves your hair, sliding down your neck to grip your throat—tight enough to make you gasp, not enough to truly hurt. Yet. "Do you understand what's expected of you here?" he asks, his breath hot against your cheek.

You nod weakly, too overwhelmed by his proximity, by the scent of him, by the way your body is traitorously responding to his aggression.

"Words," he demands, squeezing your throat just a little tighter.

"Yes, my lord," you whimper, and his smile widens, predatory and satisfied.