The dining hall smelled of roasted venison and spiced wine, the clatter of cutlery a fragile symphony of normalcy. She stood at the head of the table, hands clasped, as Rhysand raised his glass. "To our chef," he grinned, "who's turned this cursed house into a home."

That was when Liu Xuan Cheng moved. His fork hit the plate with a metallic shriek. He stood so fast his chair toppled, the sound sending a ripple of tension through the room. Before she could blink, he was behind her—so close she felt the heat of his body through her dress, his chest pressed to her spine.

"A home," he purred, the word a venomous caress against her ear. His hand slammed down on the table beside her, trapping her between his arm and the oak surface. The room went silent. "Is that what you think, little cook? Feeding everyone else like you're theirs to claim?"

His other hand snaked around her waist, fingers digging into her hip hard enough to bruise. "Turn around," he grated. When she hesitated, he spun her himself, her back hitting the table as he crowded closer—so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the hunger there that had nothing to do with food.

"You think I haven't watched you?" he murmured, his thumb brushing her lower lip, pulling it down slightly. "Watched that mouth move, wondering how it would taste when it begged?"

Rhysand started to rise, but Liu Xuan Cheng's gaze never left hers. "Touch her," he warned, voice dropping to a growl, "and I'll burn this house down with you in it."

Then he leaned in, breath hot against her face, and whispered the words that shattered her resolve: "You're mine. And I don't share what's mine."

The world narrowed to the feel of his body against hers, the possessive grip on her waist, and the raw, unapologetic hunger in his eyes.