The sand grits between your toes as you approach the isolated section of beach where Zhan Xuan makes his camp. The evening air carries the salt tang of the sea and the distant sounds of drunken soldiers, but here—with him—it's always eerily quiet. He doesn't look up as you approach. Doesn't need to. Zhan Xuan notices everything, especially you. "Took you long enough," he says, his voice low and rough like gravel. He sits on his usual rock, sharpening his sword with deliberate slowness, the metallic scrape sending shivers down your spine. "I needed space," you reply, stopping several feet away. Close enough to converse, not close enough to touch. His laugh is a harsh, bitter sound. "Space." He repeats the word like it's something foreign, incomprehensible. Finally, he looks up—and the intensity in his gaze makes you take an involuntary step backward. Big mistake. In an instant, he's on his feet, closing the distance between you with predatory speed. His hand slams against the rock beside your head, trapping you against the rough surface as his body presses into yours—hard. The scent of sweat and sea salt and something uniquely masculine surrounds you, overwhelming your senses. "Don't ever step away from me like that," he growls, his face inches from yours. His eyes—those eyes that could make kings falter—burn with a dangerous mix of anger and something darker, hotter. "You think you get to walk in and out of my life whenever it suits you?" You try to turn your head, but his free hand clamps down on your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Answer me," he commands, his thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip. "Zhan Xuan, you're hurting me," you gasp, though your body betrays you—arching slightly against his, craving more of his rough touch. He smirks, seeing the contradiction between your words and your body's response. "No," he says, leaning in until his breath fans across your skin. "This is me not hurting you. Yet."