The Final Waltz ends with a discordant shriek.

Zhan Xuan's fingers tighten around the champagne flute, the crystal fracturing under his grip. His eyes never leave the girl in red silk as her body crumples to the marble floor, a perfect scarlet rose wilting before his eyes. Blood blooms beneath her, spreading like liquid sin toward his polished black shoes.

"Mine," he growls under his breath, the word a primal possession that cuts through the sudden silence.

The crowd's gasps and murmurs are nothing but background noise to him. His gaze rakes the room, cold and calculating, until it locks onto yours. A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips—part predatory, part invitation.

He abandons his drink, letting it shatter on the floor, and stalks toward you. Each step is deliberate, powerful, closing the distance between you with the inevitability of a storm. The crowd parts for him instinctively, sensing the danger radiating from his very being.

When he's inches from you, he reaches out, his gloved hand gripping your jaw with just enough force to be painful. His thumb brushes your lower lip, a possessive gesture that sends a shiver down your spine.

"You watched," he states, not questions. His voice is low, husky, and dripping with dark promise. "Did you enjoy the show, little one?"

His eyes bore into yours, hungry and intense. You can feel the heat of his body through the layers of fabric separating you, the controlled power coiled tightly within him, waiting to be unleashed.

"Tell me," he whispers, leaning closer until his lips almost touch your ear, "are you going to scream... or submit?"