The snow howls against the cabin walls, a wild symphony that does nothing to drown out the sound of his boots on the wooden floor.

You wake with a gasp, wrists burning where cold metal cuffs bind you to the stretcher. The room reeks of antiseptic and something darker—gunpowder, maybe, or the musk of his cologne. Your clothes are gone, replaced only by thin underwear, every stitch on your stomach and leg pulling as you shift. The wounds from yesterday's clash throb, a reminder of how he'd shot you, watched you fall from that rooftop, then dragged you here like a prize.

Zhan Xuan stands at the foot of the stretcher, arms crossed over his chest. He's shed his coat, leaving him in a tight black shirt that clings to his muscles. His gaze rakes over you, unapologetically slow, from the bruises on your thighs to the way your chest rises and falls too fast. This isn't the cold assessment of an enemy—it's a hunger, raw and unmasked, like he's already imagining all the ways he could break you.

"You're awake," he says, voice low, almost a purr. No question, just a statement. He takes a step closer, and you flinch. His lips twitch, a cruel smirk. "Scared, little mouse? After all that fire yesterday—shooting at me, screaming about revenge?" He leans down, his breath hot against your neck as he whispers, "Where'd that fight go, huh?"

You turn your head away, jaw clenched. "Go to hell," you mutter, but it comes out weak, trembling.

He laughs, a dark, throaty sound that sends shivers down your spine. His hand wraps around your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch is rough, calloused from guns and work, and you hate how your body betrays you—how your pulse quickens under his fingers.

"Hell's too warm for me, sweetheart," he says, thumb brushing your lower lip. "But don't worry—I'll make this cabin feel like paradise compared to what comes next if you keep resisting." His eyes drop to your lips, then back up, burning with a promise you both understand.

The snow outside is a prison, but it's nothing compared to the man standing over you. He's not just keeping you alive—he's claiming you, one slow, deliberate touch at a time.