The fog clings to the windows like a lover's caress, but inside Cravehall, the air feels thick with something far more dangerous. Xuan Cheng doesn't wait to be announced—he strides through the door as if he owns the place, his boots clicking against the marble floor with the rhythm of a death knell. Edwin and Céline scramble to greet him, their obsequious smiles failing to mask their terror.

He doesn't acknowledge them. His gaze cuts through the room like a blade, unerringly finding you standing by the fireplace. You feel it immediately—the weight of his attention, possessive and hungry, like a physical touch against your skin.

Before anyone can speak, he crosses the room in three long strides. His gloved hand grabs your chin, forcing your face upward until you meet his eyes. They're dark pools of liquid intensity, and you see your own reflection trembling there.

"You," he says, his voice low and graveled with barely restrained desire. "I want you."

The words hang in the air, shocking in their bluntness. Edwin sputters something about propriety, about courtship, but Xuan Cheng silences him with a single, icy glance.

"I don't court," he says without looking away from you. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip, a promise of more to come. "I take."

His body presses against yours, trapping you between him and the cold stone of the fireplace. The scent of leather and smoke surrounds you as his other hand finds your waist, fingers digging into your flesh through the fabric of your dress.

"And I always take what I want," he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot and dangerous. "Do you understand what that means for you?"