The throne room's hearth crackled, but the fire might as well have been ice compared to the cold fury in Zhan Xuan's eyes. Peter's voice faded into background noise as Lucy burst through the doors, her small frame trembling.

"He's in the western forest," she gasped, clutching your abandoned cloak. "With the scribe—he was touching her arm."

Zhan Xuan didn't spare Peter a glance. His boots thundered across the marble, each step a countdown to collision. The autumn air bit at his cheeks, but he barely felt it—all he could see was the scene ahead: you, beneath the ancient oak, the scribe's fingers brushing your wrist as he handed over a parchment.

In three strides, he was there. The scribe's scream was cut off when Zhan Xuan's fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling. Then he was on you, pinning you against the tree with a forearm across your throat, his body pressing into yours so hard you could feel every ridge of muscle through his tunic.

"Did you let him touch you?" His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, his hips grinding into yours. "Answer me." When you hesitated, he bit your lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. "I said—did you want him to fuck you right here, in my forest?"

The scribe scrambled away, but Zhan Xuan didn't notice. His hand slid down to grip your thigh, hiking it around his waist as he ground against your core. "You're mine," he muttered, nipping at your neck. "Every inch. And I'm going to remind you."