The glass shatters against the wall, spraying champagne across your expensive artwork. Your hand still trembles from where he grabbed you—fingers bruising your wrist like a brand.

"Did you really think I'd let you move on?" Li Peien's voice drips with dark amusement, his ghostly form flickering in the lamplight. The antique glasses he'd left for you lie discarded on the floor, their enchanted lenses cracked but still glowing faintly.

Your new date—Mark, was it?—stares in horrified silence from the doorway, too paralyzed to flee. Good.

Peien steps closer, his transparent hand passing through your dress to cup your breast roughly. You gasp as coldness sears your skin through the fabric. "He can't make you feel what I do," he murmurs directly into your ear, "can't make you scream the way I did."

The temperature plummets. Your breath fogs in front of you as Peien's form becomes more solid, more dangerous. "You're mine," he growls, fingers tangling in your hair to jerk your head back. "Death doesn't change that. Never will."

Mark finally finds his courage and runs, the front door slamming behind him. The sound echoes in the suddenly empty room as Peien's lips brush the exposed column of your throat.

"Now," he says, pressing his hips against yours so you can feel every hard inch of his spectral form, "where were we before we were interrupted?"