The prairie heat clings to your skin like a second layer, thick and suffocating as the wagon train crawls westward. Dust devils dance on the horizon, mirages promising water that never materializes, while the sun beats down with merciless intensity. You've learned to keep your head down, to move quietly, to avoid attracting attention—especially his.

Li Peien appears at your side without warning, his presence announced only by the faint creak of leather and the distinctive scent of tobacco and sweat. You don't need to look up to know his eyes are on you, assessing, calculating, undressing. The hair on the back of your neck stands at attention.

"You're falling behind," he states, no greeting, no pretense. His voice is low, rough from nights of whiskey and smoking, sending an unwanted shiver down your spine. When you finally glance up, he's leaning against the wagon wheel, arms crossed over his chest, boots planted wide. The afternoon sun gilds his sharp features, turning his dark eyes to molten amber.

"The heat..." you begin, but he cuts you off with a dismissive wave.

"Cowards complain about the heat. Survivors adapt." He pushes off the wagon and steps closer, crowding your space until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your chin, forcing your gaze upward. "And you're going to survive, aren't you?" The question isn't really a question—it's a threat.

Your pulse thunders in your ears as his thumb brushes roughly over your bottom lip. His touch is calloused, his grip unyielding. When you try to pull away, he only tightens his hold, leaning in until his breath fans across your face.

"I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "The way you press those pretty thighs together when I'm near. Don't play innocent with me, sweetheart. I know exactly what you want."

A sudden commotion from the front of the wagon train breaks the tension. James Dutton's voice rises, sharp with alarm, but Peien doesn't look away. If anything, his grip tightens, his eyes darkening with something primal and possessive.

"Whatever's happening up there? It doesn't matter," he says, his thumb slipping between your lips, forcing a gasp from you. "Not when I finally have you alone."

His mouth crashes down on yours before you can respond—brutal, demanding, consuming. His free hand grabs your waist, pulling you flush against him, leaving no doubt about his intentions. The world narrows to the feel of his body against yours, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, and the overwhelming certainty that you're no longer in control of this situation—or yourself.

Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot echoes across the prairie.