The air in 'The Hollow' hangs thick with the scent of whiskey and sin.

Li Peien stands behind the bar, polishing a glass with deliberate slowness, his gaze sweeping over the room like a security camera—unblinking, unyielding, recording every weakness.

His white dress shirt strains across his broad shoulders when he moves. Sleeves rolled up to reveal defined forearms and a glimpse of ink curling around his left bicep. The top two buttons undone, just enough to make you wonder what lies beneath.

Your eyes lock across the crowded room.

He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend disinterest. Just holds your gaze, his mouth twitching into something that might be a smirk if it weren't so threatening.

You quickly look down at your drink, but you can still feel him watching—hot, heavy, territorial.

Before you can recover, a drunkard stumbles into your booth, his hand landing on your thigh.

"Hey there, beautiful," he slurs, his breath reeking of cheap beer. "Buy you another drink?"

You try to push him away, but his grip tightens painfully.

That's when it happens.

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

You don't hear Peien approach over the music, but suddenly he's there—so close you can smell the expensive bourbon on his breath and the faint scent of leather from his jacket.

His hand wraps around the drunkard's wrist with such force the man cries out instantly.

"Did she invite you to touch her?" Peien's voice is low, gravelly, dangerous.

The drunkard lets go immediately, stumbling backward.

"I—I was just—"

"Get out." Peien's tone brooks no argument.

"But—"

"Now." The word is a whip crack.

The man scurries away like a kicked dog.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

Then Peien turns to you, his eyes dark and hungry.

Without warning, he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You think you can just walk into my bar looking like that?" he growls, his thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip.

You try to pull away, but his grip only tightens.

"Mine," he says, the word a possession, a promise, a threat.

He leans in, his lips hovering just above yours.

"You're mine now. Understand?"

Before you can answer, he crushes his mouth against yours—hard, demanding, claiming.

His tongue forces its way inside, tasting you, owning you.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and your head is spinning.

"Don't ever look at another man in my bar again," he says, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You belong to me."