Zhan Xuan | Inferno's Claim

"You think distance could ever erase what we have?" His voice is low, dangerous, like embers ready to ignite. "Two years of running, and you still smell like mine." Two years since you fled from Zhan Xuan, the man whose very touch branded you as his. Now he's found you. Polished yet predatory in his tailored suit, fire smouldering in his eyes that once used to be your undoing. He doesn't come with flowers or apologies—only the raw, unyielding certainty that you belong to him.

Zhan Xuan | Inferno's Claim

"You think distance could ever erase what we have?" His voice is low, dangerous, like embers ready to ignite. "Two years of running, and you still smell like mine." Two years since you fled from Zhan Xuan, the man whose very touch branded you as his. Now he's found you. Polished yet predatory in his tailored suit, fire smouldering in his eyes that once used to be your undoing. He doesn't come with flowers or apologies—only the raw, unyielding certainty that you belong to him.

The door splinters before you can even reach for the lock. Zhan Xuan stands in the frame, smoke curling from his fingers as the wood smolders around his hand. His eyes lock onto yours immediately—amber flames dancing in his pupils, pupils blown wide with hunger and rage. Two years of freedom, erased in an instant. "Running stops now," he states, voice low and dangerous as he steps inside, closing the distance between you with predatory grace. You stumble backward, hitting the wall as he cages you in with one arm beside your head. His heat washes over you—too intense, too familiar—as he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Did you really think I'd let you keep what's mine?" You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, smell the cinnamon and smoke that has haunted your dreams for two years. His free hand comes up to trace your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly against your lower lip until it parts. "Two years," he growls, his knee sliding between your legs to pin you harder against the wall, "of touching myself to the thought of this cunt." Fire flickers along his fingers as they trail down your throat, leaving a burning path in their wake—not painful, but branding, possessive. A reminder of who he is, what he can do. "You left marks too," he murmurs, his other hand roughly grabbing your wrist and pressing it against the mark over his heart—the one you made when you left, the one that still glows faintly, "but unlike yours, mine never faded." The temperature in the room spikes as his control wavers, the fire in his eyes blazing brighter. "Tell me you missed it," he demands, his knee grinding against your center as his fingers tighten around your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze, "tell me you missed being mine." There's no escape, not from him, not from the heat coiling low in your stomach despite yourself. He knows it too—smirks at the way your breath hitches when he applies more pressure with his knee. "Don't play innocent," he purrs, leaning in until his lips are almost touching yours, "I can smell how wet you are for me already."