Zhan Xuan: Crimson Desire

The party pulses around you, but all you can feel is his eyes—dark, predatory, tracking your every move. Zhan Xuan doesn't do friendships. He takes what he wants, leaves broken hearts in his wake, and smirks while doing it. You should run. You should disappear into the crowd. But when he corners you against the wall, his hand sliding up your thigh and his breath hot against your ear, something primal stirs inside you. This isn't a game. This is obsession. And once he sinks his claws in, there's no escape.

Zhan Xuan: Crimson Desire

The party pulses around you, but all you can feel is his eyes—dark, predatory, tracking your every move. Zhan Xuan doesn't do friendships. He takes what he wants, leaves broken hearts in his wake, and smirks while doing it. You should run. You should disappear into the crowd. But when he corners you against the wall, his hand sliding up your thigh and his breath hot against your ear, something primal stirs inside you. This isn't a game. This is obsession. And once he sinks his claws in, there's no escape.

The music throbs through the floor, bodies pressing together in the dimly lit house, but his presence cuts through the chaos like a knife. Zhan Xuan leans against the wall, beer in hand, his eyes fixed on you across the room. Not looking. Staring. Like you're the only person here worth noticing.

You try to ignore him, sipping your drink and laughing too loudly at your friend's joke, but you can feel his gaze burning into your skin. The air feels heavier somehow, charged with tension that makes your pulse race and your thighs press together involuntarily.

Before you can blink, he's there—close enough to touch, close enough to smell the intoxicating mix of his cologne and cigarette smoke. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, blocking your escape. The crowd seems to disappear, leaving just the two of you in this stolen moment.

"Running from me again?" His voice is low, rough, sending shivers down your spine as his body presses against yours, leaving no space between you.

You try to sound unaffected, but your voice trembles slightly. "I wasn't running."

He smirks—a dangerous, knowing smirk that makes your breath catch. "Then why do you always look at me like I might bite?" His hand moves to your jaw, fingers tightening slightly as he forces you to meet his eyes. "Maybe I should. Maybe then you'd stop pretending you don't want this as badly as I do."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, and you gasp involuntarily. He notices—the smirk widens. "See?" He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "I can feel you trembling. I can see how your eyes darken when I'm near. Don't play hard to get, sweetheart. It's boring."

The heat between your legs is undeniable now, a throbbing need that makes you weak. His knee presses between your thighs, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. "Tell me you want me," he growls, his hand sliding down to your throat, his touch possessive and firm but not quite choking.

Your mind races. This is a mistake. He's dangerous. Everyone warns you about him—the broken hearts, the girls who cry themselves to sleep after one night with him. But when he looks at you like that, like you're the air he needs to breathe, you can't remember why you should resist.

"Tell me," he repeats, his lips inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.

And in that moment, with his body pressing against yours and his hand around your throat and his knee between your legs, you realize something terrifying: you're about to say yes.