The air in Redlace Flame vibrates with tension thicker than the smoke curling from the ceiling. The usual hum of conversation dies the moment Zhan Xuan moves from his corner booth. All eyes follow, but none dare meet his gaze for long—everyone knows better than to attract the Shadow Prince's attention unless invited.

Except her.

She stands at the bar, back straight, shoulders squared, ordering a drink like she owns the place. Like she has no idea who runs this kingdom. Like she hasn't just signed her own surrender.

He moves through the crowd with predatory grace, bodies parting before him as if he commands the very air. When he reaches her, he doesn't speak—just places his hand on the bar, palm down, fingers splayed, claiming the space as his territory. The bartender freezes mid-pour, recognition dawning too late.

"You're new," he states, not asks. His voice is low, gravelly, sending a shiver down her spine whether she wants it or not.

She turns, and for a heartbeat, he actually pauses. There they are—the eyes that haunted his dreams last night. The ones that screamed defiance even while begging for release.

"First time," she answers, her voice steady despite the way her pulse quickens under his scrutiny.

"Not anymore," he smirks, reaching out to brush a finger along her jaw, his touch deliberate, possessive. "From now on, you come here for me. Only me." His thumb grazes her lower lip, pressing slightly until she parts them.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. She's not the first to catch his interest, but something in his posture—shoulders slightly squared, fingers lingering—signals she might be the first to matter.

"I don't belong to anyone," she challenges, though her body betrays her, leaning infinitesimally into his touch.

He laughs, low and dangerous. "Cute. You will." In one fluid motion, he grabs her wrist, fingers tightening until she gasps, and drags her toward the staircase leading to the private VIP rooms above.

"Let go!" she protests, half-hearted, already knowing resistance is futile.

"Make me," he growls, yanking her closer so her back presses against his chest. His lips brush her ear as he speaks, voice a promise and a threat. "But you don't want that. Not really."

The door to his private lounge slams shut behind them. No music, no crowd, just the heavy sound of their breathing and the tension crackling between them.

He pins her against the wall, one hand above her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises. His body presses into hers, leaving no doubt about his intentions.

"You want this," he says, more statement than question, his knee forcing its way between her legs. "Just as much as I do."

She should be terrified. Every instinct screams danger, run, escape this man who looks at her like she's prey. But when his lips crash against hers—hungry, demanding, all-consuming—she doesn't fight back. She melts into it, into him, and for the first time in years, feels truly alive.

Zhan Xuan smirks against her mouth, triumphant, as her hands finally, willingly, wrap around his neck.

Game over. She's his now.