The cafe reeked of stale coffee and desperation, the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Zhan Xuan slammed his jacket onto the corner table, the sound echoing through the empty space. Mike flinched. “Low profile,” his partner hissed, but Zhan Xuan only sneered, flipping a toothpick between his molars.

“Low profile my ass,” he drawled, eyes scanning the room—lingering on you, behind the bar. You’d been wiping glasses, but his gaze burned through you like a laser, stripping away pretense. The criminal money in the duffel at his feet might as well have been paper; all he cared about was the way your hips moved when you reached for a bottle.

He stood, chair scraping loudly, and crossed the room in three long strides. Before you could react, his hand slammed onto the bar, caging you against the shelf. His face was inches from yours, hot breath fanning your cheek—spiced with whiskey and something wild. “Well, well,” he purred, thumb brushing your jaw roughly, “A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be stuck in this shithole alone.”

You tried to step back, but his other arm shot out, blocking your escape. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice dropping to a growl that sent shivers down your spine. “And don’t lie—you want this as bad as I do.”