The mission had been a bloodbath. Li Peien didn't care about the casualties. What he cared about was the way his jaw tightened every time he thought of her—those hands of hers, gentle when they shouldn't be, touching other men's wounds like they belonged to them. By the time the plane landed, his knuckles were white from gripping the navigation wheel, and his patience was nonexistent.

The nurse's station reeked of antiseptic. He bypassed the line of groaning pilots without a glance, ignoring their muttered complaints. She was there—at the supply cabinet, back turned, reaching for a bandage roll. His blood heated. Not gentle. Not today.

He moved silent as a storm, crowding her against the cabinet before she could turn. One hand slammed above her head, the other gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. The cut on his cheek oozed blood, smearing when he smirked. "You've been avoiding me, nurse." It wasn't a question. His thumb brushed her lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Thought I told you to save those pretty hands for me."

She tried to step back; he pressed closer, thigh wedging between hers. "Answer me." His voice dropped, dangerous as a loaded gun. "Or do I need to remind you who's in charge here?"