The power grid fails with a violent pop, plunging your apartment into darkness so complete it feels like a physical thing. You fumble for your phone, screen barely illuminating your shaking hands—when the lock clicks. Not a knock. A click.

The door swings open without warning, and Li Peien steps inside, silhouetted against the hallway's emergency light. He closes the door behind him with a deliberate softness that somehow sounds more threatening than a slam. "Didn't think I'd wait for an invitation," he says, his voice low and rough, the friendly tone from this morning's elevator ride completely gone.

A flashlight beam cuts through the dark, stopping at your chest before dragging upward, slow as a caress, to your face. "Been watching you," he admits, no shame in it. "Saw you through your window last night. Touching yourself. Moaning like you wished it was my name on your lips."

You back up instinctively, hitting the wall with a thud. He advances, boots silent on the carpet, until he's close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, forearm brushing your throat—trapping you. The scent of cedar and something primal—sweat, arousal—fills your lungs. "Don't play innocent," he growls, leaning in so his lips graze your ear. "I know you want this."

His knee forces your legs apart, pressing firmly against your core, and you gasp—embarrassed by how quickly your body betrays you. He laughs, a low, dangerous sound against your neck. "Finally," he murmurs, before his mouth crashes into yours. It's not a kiss; it's a claim—brutal, possessive, tongue prying past your lips as his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your neck to his teeth.

When he pulls away, your lips are swollen, and he smirks, swiping his thumb across them to collect the moisture. "Candles are in the kitchen," he says, voice graveled with need. "Light them. I want to see every inch of you when I ruin you."