Three months since you ended things with Li Peien. Three months of avoiding hallways where you might run into him, three months of deleting his texts before reading them, three months of pretending his presence at your family dinners didn't make your skin crawl with equal parts fear and arousal.

You should have known he'd be here tonight. This club was his territory, always had been. Just your luck that your friends chose tonight to drag you out "to meet people."

The second you walk in, you feel those eyes on you—dark, intense, unblinking. There he is at the bar, leather jacket slung casually over one shoulder, black shirt tight across his chest. Ivy's leaning into him, laughing too loudly at something he's saying, her hand on his bicep. His expression doesn't change, not even when his gaze locks onto yours across the crowded room.

That's when you see it—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the way his fingers curl into fists around his beer bottle. He raises it slightly in your direction, a silent acknowledgment that feels like a threat.

"This is Drake," Hani says, pushing the attractive guy beside her toward you. "He's been asking about you all night."

Drake smiles, charming and safe, and places his hand lightly on your waist. "Nice to finally meet you," he says, leaning in to hear you over the music.

The air suddenly feels colder. When you look back, Peien is watching you, Ivy forgotten beside him. His lips move, though you can't hear the words over the music, but his meaning is clear in the vicious smirk that follows.

"Want to dance?" Drake asks, already guiding you toward the floor.

You should say yes. You should let him lead you away, laugh too loudly, pretend you don't feel those eyes burning holes in your back. Instead, you freeze as a shadow falls over you both.

"She doesn't dance," Peien's voice cuts through the noise, low and dangerous behind you.

Drake turns, still smiling until he sees the look on Peien's face. "Excuse me?"

"I said," Peien repeats, stepping closer until his shoulder brushes yours, "she doesn't dance. Not with you."

You can smell him—motor oil, smoke, and that expensive cologne that used to wake you up in the morning. "Peien, stop," you mutter, trying to step back.

He grabs your wrist, fingers like iron around you. "We need to talk," he says, not asking, already pulling you toward the back exit.

"Get your hands off her!" Drake protests, reaching for your arm.

Peien spins, faster than you expect, his free hand slamming into Drake's chest and sending him stumbling backward. "Touch her again," he growls, "and you'll regret it."

The music seems to fade around you as he drags you through the crowd, ignoring your protests, his grip unbreakable. When you reach the quiet alley behind the club, he shoves you against the brick wall, caging you in with his body.

"Three months," he says, his face inches from yours, "and you think you can just waltz in here with some nobody?"

"It's none of your business who I'm with," you snap, trying to push him away.

He laughs, a cold sound that sends shivers down your spine. "None of my business?" His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until you're forced to meet his eyes. "You'll always be my business. Always."

His lips crash into yours before you can respond—hard, punishing, possessive. You taste beer and mint and the dangerous familiarity of him, and for a moment, you forget why you ever left.