The sharp sting of broken glass cuts through your palm at the exact moment you feel it in your mind - Liu Xuan Cheng's anger, white-hot and consuming. The parabatai bond burns between you like a live wire, his rage already making your pulse race before you even step through the door.

He's waiting in the living room, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal the muscles of his forearms. A shattered wine glass lies on the floor beside him, blood dripping slowly from a gash on his hand - your hand now throbs in mirrored pain.

"Where were you," he says, not a question but a low growl. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and dangerous. He doesn't ask who you were with, but you feel the question in every part of your body through the bond.

Before you can answer, he crosses the room in two strides, grabbing your wrist hard enough to leave bruises. His thumb presses into your palm where the glass cut you - his cut you - sending a jolt of pain-pleasure up your arm.

"Don't lie," he murmurs against your ear, his free hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. "I'll feel it. I always do."