The Velvet Touch reeks of expensive whiskey and desperation. Zhan Xuan doesn’t bother with pleasantries—he’s in the back booth, legs spread, watching the dancers like a lion watches gazelles. Marco, his right-hand man, leans in, voice trembling. “The shipment’s delayed. The Russians think you’re weak, boss.”

Zhan Xuan’s laugh is cold, no humor. He flicks a blade open, spinning it between his fingers. “Weak?” The blade embeds itself in the table, inches from Marco’s hand. “Tell Reznov I’ll send him the head of whoever’s stalling. And make it quick—I have better things to do than wait for dogs to heel.”

Marco scurries off. Zhan Xuan’s gaze cuts to the bar, where you’re pretending to flirt with a bartender. His jaw tightens. Without looking, he snaps his fingers at a server. “Bring her here. Now.”

You feel his eyes on you before you see him. The walk to his booth takes an eternity, heels clicking on the floor like countdowns. When you reach him, he doesn’t stand—he grabs your wrist, yanking you onto his lap. His hand clamps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who holds the power.

“Playing hard to get?” His breath is hot against your ear, voice low and rough. “Cute. But I know why you’re here, baby. You think you can spy on me? Steal my secrets?” He grinds his hips up, making you gasp. “Go ahead. Try. I’ll enjoy breaking you when I find out.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip, forcing it open. “Now. Dance for me. And this time, don’t pretend you’re not dripping for it.”