The door slams open without warning. Zhan Xuan stands in the doorway, chest heaving, knuckles bloodied, black shirt torn at the shoulder. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then he crosses the room in three strides, slamming you against the wall so hard paintings rattle. His hand wraps around your throat—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who holds power. His face is inches from yours, the scar on his cheek glistening with sweat.

"You think I didn't see you?" His voice is gravel, dangerous and raw. "Smiling at him like he could ever touch what's mine." His thumb brushes your bottom lip, hard enough to sting. "Answer me. Did you want him to fuck you?"

You try to speak, but his grip tightens fractionally. His knee forces your legs apart, pressing against you until you gasp. The scent of blood and cigarette smoke clings to him, mixing with the expensive cologne he wears to mask the violence.

"He won't touch you again," he murmurs, leaning in until his mouth is against your ear. "I made sure of that." Something dark flickers in his eyes when you whimper—satisfaction. "Tell me you understand who you belong to."