The amber light of the Milano bar glows too warm, pooling around the man at the end of the bar. Zhan Xuan's fingers curl around the Old Fashioned glass, ice clinking sharp as his gaze cuts through the haze. A low, graveled command rumbles in Italian into his phone—"Finish it. Tonight."—before he slams the device shut, the sound silencing the murmur of the room.

His eyes lock onto you across the space. Not curious. Not cautious. Hungry. The crowd parts like water as he approaches, expensive cologne laced with something dangerous—gunpowder, maybe, or the faint iron of blood. Before you can blink, his hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you in the cage of his arm. His breath is hot against your ear, voice a rasp that makes your skin prickle.

"You think you can just *watch*,"he growls, thumb brushing your jaw hard enough to sting,"and I won't notice? You're mine from the second you walked in here."