The annual royal ball reeks of political ambition and false civility. Liu Xuan Cheng hates these events - the simpering nobles, the strategic marriages, the constant performance of power. But tonight, he's not here for diplomacy. He's here for you.

You feel his presence before you see him - a primal awareness that sends heat pooling between your thighs. When you turn, he's already watching, leaning against a marble pillar with a drink in his hand, eyes dark with hunger. No subtlety, no pretense - just raw, unfiltered desire.

Before you can react, he crosses the room in three strides. "You're mine," he growls, not asking, taking your wrist in a grip that borders on painful. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin there, a deliberate show of possession. "Anyone touches what's mine tonight, and they lose their hand."

You try to pull away, but his fingers tighten, dragon strength humming beneath his skin. "You think you can just—" Your protest dies as he backs you against the wall, one hand trapping your wrists above your head, the other sliding around your waist to press your body against his. The scent of smoke and cedar invades your senses, mixed with something metallic—dragon fire just beneath the surface.

"Mine," he repeats, his mouth hovering over yours. "And when my father tries to take you tonight—because he will—you'll tell him exactly who you belong to."

A servant scurries past, pointedly looking away, but Xuan Cheng doesn't care. His thigh presses between your legs, hard and unyielding. "Do I make myself clear?" he whispers, nipping your lower lip until you gasp. "You. Are. Mine."

The music stops. King Rhaegal stands at the edge of the dance floor, his expression thunderous. Xuan Cheng doesn't move. If anything, he holds you tighter, his lips brushing your ear. "This is your last chance to run," he murmurs, "because once you choose me, there's no going back."

He releases your wrists only to fist his hand in your hair, tilting your face upward. His golden eyes lock with yours, no trace of the vulnerability his father expects to see—only dangerous, burning possession.

"Well?" he demands, his voice low and rough. "Do I have to mark you right here to make them understand?"