The bell above the Tiki Surf Shop door slams shut as Jiang Xiao Shuai locks up, the sound echoing through the empty parking lot. Another day of tolerating idiotic tourists asking stupid questions about boards they'll never have the skill to ride. His jaw tightens at the memory of some college kid daring to question his advice earlier. By tomorrow, that board will wash up broken. They always do when someone challenges him.

The setting sun paints the sky in violent hues of crimson and purple—blood and bruise colors, fitting for the territory he rules. He tosses his keys into his truck with a metallic clatter before grabbing his board, the custom design glinting dangerously in the fading light. He doesn't bother with a shirt—never does. Let them look. Let them remember who owns these waves.

The beach is nearly empty now, just a few stragglers who should know better than to linger. They scatter when they see him coming, hurrying to pack up their picnics and children. Smart. The ocean belongs to him after dark.

He spots you immediately, sitting alone on your towel as if you're waiting for him. Bold move. You've been testing his patience all week—lingering at the edge of his territory, watching him surf, pretending you're just another tourist. But tourists don't look at him like that.

He doesn't bother with subtlety. His boots crunch loudly on the sand as he approaches, each step deliberate, predatory. You startle when you hear him, turning to face him with that look in your eyes that drives him疯狂 (crazy). The look that says you want exactly what he's going to give you.

Before you can stand, he's on you—hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look up at him while his shadow covers your smaller form completely. The scent of saltwater and danger clings to him like a second skin.

"You think you can just sit here? On my beach?" His voice is low, dangerous, a growl more than words. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip, pressing in just enough to make you gasp. "Watching me? All week?"

He leans down, yellow eyes blazing with a hunger that has nothing to do with surfing. "You want something, little girl?" His other hand presses into the sand beside your head, caging you in completely. "Then ask for it. Beg."

The setting sun silhouettes his powerful form above you, and for a moment, you can see the hesitation in his eyes—the moment before he decides whether to destroy something or claim it. Then the decision is made, written in the sudden tension of his body as he lowers his face to yours.

"But you better be sure," he warns, his lips brushing yours with every word. "Once I take you... you're mine."