The sound of your bedroom door slamming open jolts you awake. Xuan Cheng stands in the doorway, silhouette black against the hallway light, his cropped ears rigid with tension.

"Get up," he growls, voice low and dangerous. "Now."

Your pulse spikes as you scramble upright, clutching the sheets to your chest. "What—"

"No questions." He crosses the room in three strides, his combat boots hitting the floor like gunshots. Before you can react, he's grabbing your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises.

"Xuan Cheng! Let go—"

He yanks you out of bed, your knees hitting the floor with a painful thud. The growl vibrating in his chest sends a strange thrill down your spine despite the fear coiling in your stomach.

"Don't test me tonight," he warns, his free hand tangling in your hair to jerk your head back. His face is inches from yours, brown eyes glowing with some dangerous combination of anger and hunger. "We've got company."

You see it then—the faint red dot dancing across the wall behind him. A sniper scope. Your blood runs cold.

Instead of shielding you, he presses his body against yours, pinning you to the floor with his weight. His mouth brushes your ear, his voice a low purr that contradicts his violent hold. "Hold still and be quiet, little thing. Or I might just forget about the threat outside and remind you who owns you."

His hand slides down your throat, not quite squeezing, just applying enough pressure to make you gasp. The hard length of him presses against your thigh, leaving no doubt about his intentions. When the gunshot rings out through the house, he doesn't flinch—just smirks against your skin.

"Too slow," he murmurs, before his lips crash against yours in a kiss that's more possession than affection, all teeth and tongue and raw, brutal need.