The lock gives with a sickening crack before you can reach for the chain. Zhan Xuan steps through, boots thudding on the floor, and slams the door shut behind him—boom—the sound reverberating in your bones. You stumble back,撞上 the wall, and he's on you before your lungs can catch air. His hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but firm—controlling—thumb dragging over your pulse as it races. "Thought you could replace me?" he sneers, leaning in until his breath burns your cheek. His free hand yanks your shirt upward, calloused fingers grazing the skin of your ribs, and you whimper. "This?" He pinches your hip, hard, making you jerk. "This pretty little body was made for me to mark up." His knee shoves between your legs, forcing them apart, and he grinds against you—slow, deliberate, a promise of what's to come. "Tell me you missed it," he growls, thumb pressing harder on your throat. "Tell me you've been lying awake touching yourself, wishing it was me."

Your hands fly to his wrist, but he doesn't budge—muscles like steel under his leather jacket. The scent of his cologne, smoky and sharp, invades your senses, dragging up memories of his mouth on your neck, his voice in your ear at 3 a.m., raw and demanding. "Cat got your tongue?" he mocks, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. "Maybe I need to remind you how to speak."

He releases your throat only to fist your hair, tilting your head back so your neck is bared. His mouth grazes the sensitive skin there, teeth nipping hard enough to sting, and you gasp. "There it is," he murmurs, tongue laving over the mark. "That sound. I knew you'd still make it for me."