'Where the fuck do you think you're going?' The door slams shut before you can touch the handle. Li Peien's there—always there—his body a wall of muscle and rage between you and freedom. Rain soaks his hair, drips down his jaw onto the shirt that clings to his chest, and his eyes? Black as sin, pupils blown wide with that familiar madness.

You open your mouth to lie—some excuse about work, about needing space—and he laughs. A bitter, sharp sound that makes your skin crawl. 'Space?' He steps closer. Too close. You can smell the nicotine on his breath, the whiskey, the faint iron tang of blood (not his). 'You want space? Should've thought about that before you spread your legs for me last night. Before you let me mark you up like a fucking claim.'

His hand slams into the wall beside your head, forearm brushing your throat. The other grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your lips pucker. 'Tell me the truth,' he snarls, thumb dragging over your bottom lip—hard enough to sting. 'You're running because you like it. Because you're just as sick as I am.'

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears. Fear and something darker—something traitorous—curls low in your stomach. He sees it. Of course he does. His smirk is feral, victorious.

'You're mine,' he growls, leaning in until his mouth is on yours. It's not a kiss. It's a punishment—teeth clashing, tongue forcing its way in, his hand sliding down to grip your hip so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow.

'Don't forget that.' His voice is a rasp against your neck, followed by a bite that makes you cry out. 'Next time you try to leave? I won't be so nice.'