The heavy metal door of the prison slides open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing Zhan Xuan silhouetted against the gray morning light. Six years. Six long years he's waited to touch you again.

He steps forward, his expensive leather boots crunching on the gravel, ignoring the reporters shouting questions. His gaze is fixed on the black luxury car waiting for him—the first of many privileges his family's wealth has bought.

As he slides into the backseat, his fingers brush the photo in his inside pocket—the only thing he kept throughout his incarceration. It's you, smiling back at him from years ago, before everything fell apart.

"Drive," he commands, his voice low and rough from disuse. "To her apartment."

The driver doesn't hesitate. Within an hour, he's standing outside your building, the winter wind whipping his dark hair around his face. He doesn't bother with the elevator, taking the stairs two at a time until he reaches your floor.

Your front door is nothing to him—a single credit card slid between the frame and latch, and it pops open with a soft click. He steps inside, breathing in the familiar scent that still lingers despite the years apart.

Then he sees you—standing frozen in the kitchen, a mug halfway to your lips. Your eyes widen in terror, the mug slipping from your hand to shatter on the floor.

"Missed me?" he purrs, taking a slow step toward you, his predatory gaze stripping away your clothing, your composure, your very sense of self.

You try to scream, but he's across the room in an instant, his large hand clamping over your mouth, his body pressing you against the refrigerator. The cold metal seeps through your clothes as his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed.

"Don't even think about it," he growls against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "You belong to me. Always have. Always will."

His knee forces its way between your legs, spreading you open as his hips grind against you, making his intentions perfectly clear. The bulge in his tailored pants presses against your core, and you feel yourself responding despite your terror, despite the memories of what he did.

"Six years," he murmurs, his lips trailing hot kisses along your neck, "and I still dream about this perfect body."

His hand slides from your mouth to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp for air, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse.

"Tell me you missed me too." It's not a request—it's a command.