You wake with hay in your hair, nightgown clinging to sweat-slick skin. The farm smells of rot and iron—dead cows, you realize, eyes widening at their僵硬 forms in the moonlight. Then the siren static starts, low and thrumming, growing louder as boots crunch toward you.

He's there before you can stand. Li Peien. Taller up close, broad shoulders blocking the moon. His hand slams beside your head, hay bale groaning under the force. "Thought you could run," he growls, voice rough like gravel. His other hand fists your nightgown, yanking you closer until your chests press together. "Should've known better."

You gasp when his thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "I hear how bad you want this," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath burns your ear. "Don't pretend you don't." The radio in his pocket wails, a high, keening sound that mirrors the heat coiling between you.