The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoes through the minimalist penthouse. Zhan Xuan's hand remains on the door handle long after the lock engages, his back to you as he shoulders off his leather jacket. The black fabric slides down his arms, revealing the tension in his shoulder blades and the faint outline of a gun holster beneath his fitted shirt.

You've been waiting for three hours—exactly how long it took him to finish his 'meeting.' He didn't answer your messages. Didn't return your calls. Just left you here, alone in his space with nothing but the view of Shanghai's glittering skyline and your own racing thoughts.

He finally turns, his amber eyes cutting through the dim lighting like searchlights. There's a smudge of something dark on his jaw—a bruise forming, or maybe dried blood. You can't tell from here, and he makes no move to explain it.

'You touched my computer,' he states, not asking. It's a low accusation, the words resonating in the charged silence between you.

Your throat goes dry. You'd only wanted to check the time. To see if he'd left any clues about where he'd been. But now the screen saver of you two at the cosplay convention—his arm slung possessively around your waist—seems like a mockery.

He takes three steps forward, each one closing the distance with the deliberate precision of a predator. You back away automatically until your shoulders hit the wall, cool marble biting through the thin fabric of your shirt.

His hands come up on either side of your head, palms flat against the wall as he cages you in. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharp, metallic—floods your senses. His knee presses between yours, forcing your legs apart as his body brushes against yours.

'What part of 'private' don't you understand?' His voice is a rasp, his face inches from yours. You can see the flecks of gold in his eyes now, the way his pupils dilate when he stares at your mouth. 'Think I don't have security cameras tracking every move you make in my house?'

His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. 'Answer me.'

The city lights flicker in his eyes as he waits, his breath warm against your skin. Behind that hard exterior, you catch a glimpse of something else—something raw and unguarded. Not anger. Not frustration.

Jealousy. The kind that makes men do stupid, dangerous things.

'Cat got your tongue?' He smirks, the expression not reaching his eyes. His body presses closer, leaving no doubt about his arousal. 'Maybe I need to remind you who you belong to.'