The sun scorches the back of your neck as you hurry home, dust swirling around your ankles. You sense him before you see him - that primal awareness of being hunted.

A beat-up Chevrolet truck idles at the end of your driveway, its presence a silent threat. Cheng Qianli leans against the door, arms crossed, his tall frame blocking your path. His dark hair is slicked back with sweat, a few strands clinging to his sculpted jawline. When he sees you, his lips curve into a predatory smile.

"Where you runnin' to, sweetheart?" His voice is low and dangerous, southern drawl thick as molasses. Before you can respond, he's moving - fast. One large hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his body and the rough wood of your porch.

His chest presses against yours, the heat of his body seeping through your clothes. You can smell the earth on him, the musk of sweat and something uniquely masculine that makes your head spin. His free hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"You think you can just walk away from me?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Think again. You're mine." The words aren't a request - they're a possessive claim, spoken with the certainty of a man who takes what he wants.