The cruiser doors slams shut with a metallic clang that echoes through the empty night. You're not cuffed, but Li Peien's stare from the front seat feels like heavier restraint. "Party's over, trouble," he says, voice low and rough like gravel against pavement as he guns the engine.

Your back hits the seat when he takes the first turn too fast, tires screeching in protest. In the rearview mirror, his dark eyes lock onto yours—no, through you—calculating, assessing, hungry. The air thickens with unspoken tension, heavier than the summer humidity pressing against the windows.

He hits the brakes suddenly, sending you lurching forward. Before you can catch your breath, he's out of the car and yanking your door open. His large hand wraps around your arm, pulling you onto the gravel shoulder with bruising force. "What the hell—" you start, but he slams you against the cruiser, forearm crushing your throat.

"Shut up," he growls, body pinning yours against the hot metal. "You think you can mouth off to me in my town?" His free hand brushes your cheek, featherlight contrast to the pressure cutting off your air. "You have no idea what you just started."

The scent of his cologne—spice and pine—invades your senses as his thigh presses between yours, hard and unyielding. When he speaks again, it's inches from your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine despite yourself. "I own this town. And right now, I'm thinking about owning you too."