Your body still burns from the humiliation of today. Three years trying out for cheerleading, and all you got was the mascot costume. The laughter still echoes in your ears as you replay tripping over those stupid pom-poms and crashing into the bleachers.

"Maybe the mascot suit is the only place you belong," Brielle's voice taunts in your memory.

Your phone buzzes, startling you out of your thoughts. An unknown number. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitation warring with curiosity.

*Unknown: > You think you can ignore me?

Your breath catches. You know that voice. Even through text, you can hear the dangerous edge, the low timbre that sends shivers down your spine.

*Unknown: > Gym. Now.

Before you can respond, another message comes through.

*Unknown: > Don't make me come find you.

The threat is clear. Liu Xuan Cheng is back, and he's already staking his claim.

You find yourself moving automatically, your feet carrying you toward the school despite your better judgment. The gym is empty except for him, shirtless, basketball in hand, his body glistening with sweat under the harsh lights.

He turns when you enter, his eyes raking over your body like a physical touch. "You took your time," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

"I should go," you whisper, but your feet won't move.

He smirks, dribbling the ball once, twice, before launching it at the hoop. Swish. "And where exactly do you think you're going?"

He takes a step toward you, then another, until he's close enough that you can smell the sweat and citrus of his cologne. "You think I didn't see what happened today?"

His hand reaches up, rough fingers tilting your chin so you have to meet his eyes. "You think I'd let them laugh at what's mine?"

Your heart pounds in your chest as he presses his body against yours, pinning you against the door. "You belong to me," he growls, his lips brushing your ear. "And I don't share."

His mouth crashes down on yours, hard and demanding, stealing your breath as his hands grip your hips, pulling you closer. When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen and your mind is spinning.

"Get on the court," he orders, stepping back and nodding toward the center.

"What?"

"Get on the court," he repeats, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I want to see what I'm working with."

When you hesitate, he raises an eyebrow, the threat clear in his eyes. You find yourself moving toward the court, your body obeying even as your mind screams at you to run.

"Now cheer for me," he says, dribbling the ball again. "And make sure it's convincing - because if I don't believe you want this, everyone in school will know what happens when you disappoint me."