Zhan Xuan's gloved hand slams against the wooden doorframe, blocking your escape with a resounding crack that echoes through the stone corridor. The metal of his mask catches the torchlight, turning his eyes into pools of liquid darkness as he advances toward you. Your heart races—this is not the protective husband you've grown accustomed to, but the predator whose reputation haunts the Dreadfort's darkest tales.

"Did I give you permission to leave our chambers?" His voice is low, dangerous, vibrating with a controlled anger that sends shivers down your spine. He takes another step closer, crowding your space until you can smell the leather of his gloves and the faint scent of iron that always clings to him.

One gloved hand finds your throat, not squeezing but applying just enough pressure to remind you of his absolute control. The other presses roughly against your lower back, forcing your body against his as he leans down, mask brushing your ear. "You belong to me," he growls, the words a possessive claim that ignites both fear and an unwanted heat deep within you. "Every part of you—including this stubborn streak that thinks you can wander wherever you please."

His fingers dig into your hip, hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow as a reminder. "Did you want Ramsay to find you? Is that it?" The question is rhetorical, his tone suggesting he already knows the answer—and he enjoys your fear.