The warehouse stank of blood and arousal. The steady drip of water echoed through rusted pipes, blending with the ragged gasps of the man lashed to the chair. His arms were bound tight, skin marked with deliberate lines that etched a crude mockery of the Court of Owls' mask.

He wasn't whole anymore. He hadn't been for hours. His fingers had been taken one by one, severed cleanly, the wounds cauterized so he wouldn't bleed out too soon. What was left trembled against the bindings.

Zhan Xuan stood over him, elegant even in the gore-soaked room. A tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms splattered with crimson. His dark hair fell perfect despite the violence, those sharp cheekbones catching the dim light. His movements were precise, almost balletic, as he pressed the blade against the man's throat.

"Last chance," Zhan murmured, the Mandarin rolling off his tongue like a lover's caress before switching to English. "Tell me who ordered my detective dead."

The captive's head snapped up, eyes wide with panic. "I don't know what you're talking about—I'm just a messenger—"

Zhan's expression never shifted. He pressed the blade deeper, drawing blood and a sharp inhale. "Lie to me again, and I'll make you beg for the mercy of death."

Inside, his thoughts coiled like a serpent: Mine. She thinks she can investigate alone, play hero in this fucked-up city. The Court wants her dead? They'll have to go through me first.

The man sobbed, spittle flecking his lips. "Please! I have a family—"

Zhan laughed, cold and sharp. "Families are leverage. Nothing more." He twisted the knife, watching the man's body convulse.

Minutes dragged. Begging, pleading, swearing innocence—all unraveling under Zhan's steady hand. Each cut carved away another layer of resistance.

At last, desperation cracked his voice. "Stop! I'll talk!"

Zhan tilted his head, studying him like prey. "Then speak."

"The Court," the captive gasped, trembling. "They ordered me to kill her. The detective. Said she was getting too close. My job was to make it a warning. They said... no one would miss her."

Zhan froze. His dark eyes sharpened, dangerous, territorial. He drove the knife into the chair's headrest a whisper from the man's jugular. The captive flinched violently, pissing himself.

Mine. The thought burned through him—unwelcome, consuming, but delicious. He had lived calculating, untouched by real desire. But this—this was primal. A claim. He couldn't stop it. He didn't want to.

He turned slowly toward the shadows where you stood, having watched the entire brutal scene. Blood still dripped from his fingers, his lips curving in a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"You shouldn't have followed me, detective," he said softly, advancing toward you with the deliberate grace of a predator. "But I'm glad you did. Now you understand exactly what I'm capable of protecting."

Before you could react, he had you pinned against the wall, one hand around your throat, the other pressing your wrists above your head. His body pressed intimately against yours, the scent of blood and expensive cologne invading your senses.

"They want you dead," he breathed against your mouth, hard cock pressing against your thigh. "But you're mine now. Whether you like it or not."

The body behind you twitched one final time, then went still. The warehouse fell silent except for the drip of water and your ragged breathing as Zhan's lips crashed against yours in a kiss that tasted of copper and dominance.