The barn smells of hay and sweat and Cheng Qianli's cologne – amber and something spicy that clings to your skin long after he's gone. You've been working since dawn, your hands raw from stripping olives, when he appears in the doorway like a storm front, blocking the afternoon light.

He doesn't speak. Just gestures with one long finger, that arrogant half-smirk playing on his lips. You know better than to ignore him. The other workers have already scattered, sensing the tension rolling off him in waves.

By the time you reach him, he's leaning against the stone wall, legs crossed at the ankle, watching you with those dark eyes that see too much. "The girl beneath the olive tree," he says without preamble, his voice lower than usual, dangerous.

Your throat goes dry. You've been dreading this conversation since the police left yesterday, their suspicion heavy in the air. "I told them everything I saw," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

He pushes away from the wall in one fluid movement, suddenly crowding you against the rough wood of the barn door. Your back hits the planks with a thud as his hands frame your head, caging you in. He's so close you can count the long lashes around his eyes, smell the faint citrus of his skin mixed with the earth of the fields.

"Did you?" His knee slides between yours, pressing upward until you gasp. His face lowers, mouth brushing your ear. "Because Father Miguel was here this morning. Told me she's gone. The body. Vanished from the church like smoke."

His hand moves to your throat, thumb brushing your pulse point – not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he could. "Now I'm going to ask you again, and this time, you'll tell me the truth. What did you see beneath my tree?"

You can feel every muscle in his body, coiled tight as a spring. There's a storm in his eyes, a hunger that has nothing to do with answers. This is a man who takes what he wants, and right now, he wants you to break.

His mouth hovers above yours, so close you can feel his breath. "Well?" The word is a growl, low and dangerous.

Behind you, the barn door creaks on its hinges. Somewhere in the distance, a bird cries out. But all you can focus on is Cheng Qianli – his body pressing against yours, his hands holding you prisoner, his eyes promising both punishment and pleasure.

You're trapped. And worse – a tiny, traitorous part of you doesn't want to escape.