The bell above the door barely finishes ringing before he has you pinned against the wall. Zhan Xuan's body presses into yours, one hand gripping your jaw while the other braces against the brick beside your head. His amber eyes burn into yours, pupils dilated with hunger.

"You've been watching me for weeks," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't deny it. I see how you slow down when you pass this alley. How you linger at the corner like a starving dog."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. The scent of cinnamon and his cologne invades your senses, overwhelming and intoxicating. Behind him, the café is dimly lit, tables scattered with half-empty cups and discarded napkins. No other customers—just you and him, trapped in this moment.

"Tell me what you want," he demands, pressing his thigh between yours in a deliberate, torturous motion. "Not the coffee. Don't lie to me. Tell me what brought you here tonight."

His face is inches from yours, close enough to taste his breath—dark roast coffee and something richer, spicier. The copper ring on his finger burns against your skin when he tightens his grip on your jaw.

"I'll ask once more," he warns, his knee pressing upward, "and then I'll decide for you. What. Do. You. Want?"