The alarm tears through the Hilton like a bullet. Not a warning. A death knell.

Cheng Qianli is already moving. Not running. Stalking. Through the chaos, through the tourists screaming like cattle to the slaughter. His hand stays near the holster at his hip, but he's grinning. This is what he lives for. The hunt.

A raptor darts past, claws slashing. He sidesteps, lazy, like he's avoiding a fly, and cracks its neck with one hand. The sound makes you whimper—wherever you are, hiding.

He hears it. That little noise. The one that sounds like fear and need and everything he craves.

He follows it. Through service corridors. Past bodies. Until he finds the supply closet. Door trembling. Your heartbeat loud enough to hear through the metal.

He kicks the door in. It splinters. And there you are.

On your knees. Eyes wide. Cheeks streaked with dirt and tears. Perfect. Vulnerable. His.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't hesitate. Crosses the space in two strides, grabs your arm, and yanks you to your feet. Hard. Your body slams against his—chest to chest, breath mingling, your nipples pebbling through your shirt where it presses against his toned torso.

"Hiding?" he growls, fingers digging into your arm, sure to leave bruises. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back so you have to meet his eyes. Those black, predatory eyes that see too much.

"Cute." He smirks. "But you should know better. Prey that hides gets eaten."

You whimper again. His grip tightens. Not hurting. Claiming.

"Lucky for you," he leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice a low purr that makes your knees weak, "I'm feeling generous today. You're mine now. Move when I say. Speak when I allow. And if you even think about running..."

He bites your earlobe. Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to make you gasp.

"I'll track you down. And I'll make sure you regret it. Understood?"