Warm sheets. A faint citrus scent. Velvet silence.
Zhai's eyes snapped open.
High ceiling. Ornate chandelier. Marble floors.
This wasn't his room.
He sat up slowly, heart picking up pace - not fear. Awareness.
A mahogany dresser sat across the room. Thick curtains covered the windows, letting only a sliver of sunlight in. The bed beneath him was soft. Egyptian cotton. Familiar luxury - but this was not his home.
His first instinct was to stand. He didn't make it far.
Cold metal yanked tight around his ankle.
Zhai looked down.
A chain.
It wasn't tight, but it was there. Polished. Fixed to the bedpost like it belonged.
He didn't scream. He didn't call for help.
He laughed once under his breath. Bitter. Amused.
Eric, what the hell did you do?
The door clicked.
He turned his head, slow and sharp, like a predator preparing to strike.
And there he was.
Eric.
Wearing black slacks, a relaxed button-down, and the same serene expression he always wore when they were children.
Except now, he looked older. Taller. Colder.
Possessive.
"You're awake," Eric said, voice calm like they were just two old friends meeting again after a long nap. "You slept for hours."
Zhai said nothing.
Eric stepped closer. "You're probably wondering where you are."
"Not really." Zhai's voice came out hoarse but steady. "I already know whose hell this is."
A slow, unreadable smile curved Eric's lips. "Smart as always."
He came to the edge of the bed. Zhai didn't back away. He simply tilted his head, fox-like, dangerous. Glare sharp enough to slice.
"You're insane," Zhai said. "You really think this'll work?"
Eric's gaze lowered to the chain around Zhai's ankle. "It's not about working. It's about having you."
"You've lost it."
"Maybe." Eric leaned closer. "But I didn't lose you."
Zhai's fist clenched against the sheets. "We were best friends."
"We still are," Eric replied smoothly. "I just upgraded our bond."
"You kidnapped me."
"I claimed you."
Zhai chuckled darkly. "What? You think chaining me to a bed makes me yours?"
"No," Eric murmured, brushing fingers lightly across Zhai's jaw, "but I'll make sure you realize you always were."
Zhai didn't flinch. Didn't look away. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper:
"Then you better make those chains tighter."
Here's the drafted Chapter 2: "You Belong to Me Now" with the toxic tension, creeping obsession, and Zhai's unbroken fire intact:
[Timeskip]
Zhai wandered.
Barefoot across cool floors. The place was stunning - halls gilded with gold trim, glass walls that looked out to nothing but green. Endless forest. Trees like prison bars.
No signal. No cars. No way out.
He tugged at the anklet he now wore - a tracker. Sleek. High-end. Eric didn't do chains anymore. Just digital leashes.
He walked through each room: library, sunroom, indoor garden. Everything screamed freedom. But there were guards outside. Silent. Watching. Trained to shoot, probably.
He entered the kitchen. It was empty. Marble, modern, stocked. There were even strawberries in a bowl on the counter.
This wasn't a basement.
It was a palace.
A luxurious cage.
"Like it?"
Zhai turned sharply.
Eric leaned against the doorway, sipping from a glass of wine like he'd always belonged in castles. Like he wasn't a walking nightmare in velvet skin.
Zhai's smile was slow, taunting. "You're really going all in with this sick fantasy."
Eric's expression didn't waver. "I said you could roam. That wasn't a lie."
"But I can't leave."
"No."
Zhai stepped closer, feet silent against the tile. "And you expect me to just… exist here?"
"You'll adjust."
There it was again - that eerie serenity. No anger, no tension. Just obsession, tightly leashed beneath porcelain skin.
Zhai's eyes flicked to a vase on the counter. White. Ceramic. Heavy.
In one motion, he grabbed it and hurled it at Eric's head.
The shatter echoed like a scream.
Glass rained down.
Eric didn't flinch. The vase had hit the wall an inch beside him.
He looked at the broken pieces. Then at Zhai.
Then -
He laughed.
Quiet. Low. Like he'd just been kissed.
Zhai's breath caught.
"You haven't changed," Eric said, stepping forward. "That's what I love about you."
"Love?" Zhai snapped. "You're delusional."
"Maybe. But I own you now."
"You can own my body," Zhai hissed, "but you'll never touch anything else."
Eric's hand reached out. Zhai slapped it away.
Still, Eric smiled. "That's fine. For now."
Zhai's spine stiffened.
He was trapped. Owned. Watched.
But he wouldn't break.
He'd burn.
[A few hours later.]
Zhai sat by the window. Again.
Beyond the glass: trees, mist, no escape.
He'd tried opening it once. It didn't budge. Not even a crack.
He was dressed now - in soft clothes not his own. A black knit shirt, loose joggers. Everything breathable. Comfortable.
Like he was a pet.
He hated it.
Footsteps padded in.
Zhai didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
"Still sulking?" Eric's voice was low. Calm. As always. It drove Zhai insane.
Zhai's jaw tensed. "Still playing house with your hostage?"
Eric moved closer. "You scratched out the camera in your bedroom."
Zhai smiled faintly. "Oops."
A pause.
Then: "Look at me."
Zhai didn't.
A hand grabbed his arm - not hard, not gentle. Just final. Eric forced him to stand.
Zhai's glare cut like ice. "What are you gonna do? Beat me?"
Eric tilted his head. "Would that make you listen?"
Zhai didn't answer. Instead, he raised his hand - and slashed his nails across Eric's cheek.
Skin tore.
Blood beaded. Red against porcelain.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Eric didn't flinch. Didn't groan. Just stared, bleeding, turquoise eyes gleaming under dim light.
Then - he grabbed Zhai and threw him onto the bed.
Zhai gasped, struggling, but Eric's body was already on top of his. Holding him down. Not crushing - just enough.
Zhai's wrists were pinned. His legs kicked. Useless.
Eric leaned down until their noses nearly brushed.
His voice was still calm. But it trembled now - not with weakness, but restraint.
"Don't. Test. Me. Zhai."
Zhai spat in his face.
Eric flinched.
Then slowly wiped it away with the back of his hand.
He didn't strike. Didn't scream.
Just stared, then whispered:
"I don't want to hurt you. But I will. Next time, I won't stop here."
He stood up.
Zhai sat up slowly, breath ragged, chest heaving.
"I'm not scared of you," he hissed.
Eric's smile returned, blood drying on his cheek.
"You should be."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut. Locked.
[Timeskip, Night time.]
Zhai woke to the sound of the lock clicking open.
It was late. The lights were dim. The air cold.
Eric stepped inside slowly, silently - not in a rush, not hesitant either.
Zhai sat up, eyes hard. "What now?"
Eric didn't answer. He locked the door behind him.
Walked to the bed.
Zhai's heartbeat stayed steady. Not from calm - from rage.
"Say something," Zhai hissed.
Eric sat at the edge. Then crawled closer. Caged him in, hands planted on either side of Zhai's body.
His eyes… not angry. Not hungry. Just decided.
"I've waited long enough."
Zhai's expression didn't shift. "So this is it, then? You're done pretending?"
Eric leaned in. Whispered, "You were mine the moment I brought you here."
Zhai pushed at his chest, hard.
Eric didn't budge.
"Don't," Zhai warned, voice low.
But Eric moved anyway. Pressed their lips together - forceful, claiming, not tender.
Zhai's fists slammed into Eric's chest again and again, until Eric pinned them above his head.
It began.
Clothes torn, not removed. Heat burned. Nails dug into skin. A single bite left a mark on Zhai's collarbone.
Zhai didn't scream. Didn't beg. His jaw stayed clenched, eyes locked on the ceiling, as Eric took.
No sobs. No submission.
Just silence.
And blood.
The bedsheets darkened with it.
Eric slowed down toward the end. His grip trembled. Something in his eyes fractured.
He leaned in close, breath brushing Zhai's ear.
"I know you won't love me." His voice cracked, soft like a lullaby over a grave.
"I don't care. I want you anyway."
When it was over, Eric reached for a cloth. Tried to clean the blood from Zhai's thighs.
Zhai slapped his hand away.
Hard.
Eric froze.
Zhai turned his face to the wall.
"You don't get to touch me after that."
And Eric… didn't argue.
He stood up quietly.
Took the cloth. Left it on the nightstand.
And walked away without another word.
The door closed.
This time, it didn't lock.
Zhai didn't move.
________________________________
Zhai didn't speak the next morning.
He walked like nothing had happened. Chin up, spine straight, a ghost dressed in bruises and pride.
The maids noticed. They weren't allowed to speak to him, but they whispered anyway.
"He didn't cry?"
"He's still standing?"
"He hasn't begged?"
They stopped looking at him with pity. Started looking at him like a legend.
Eric watched from the hallway balcony.
His turquoise eyes followed Zhai's every movement. He didn't come close. Didn't speak. Just watched.
Obsession was thicker in the air than perfume.
Zhai sat by the window most days. Pale blue eyes fixed on the forest.
Planning.
Plotting.
One night, he tried.
Slipped past the guards. Cracked a code on a gate panel with a stolen card.
He ran.
Fast. Quiet.
But the trees were endless. The darkness swallowed him.
Then came headlights.
A car, sleek and silent, pulled up beside him. The window rolled down.
Eric.
Calm. As if Zhai were just out on a walk.
"Get in, Zhai."
Zhai didn't move.
Eric sighed, stepped out of the car, and walked toward him - slowly, like a predator.
"Don't make me drag you."
Zhai's jaw clenched. But after ten seconds, he turned and got in on his own.
Eric said nothing the whole ride back.
Neither did Zhai.
Inside the house, Zhai went to his room and shut the door.
Didn't scream. Didn't cry.
And Eric?
He stood outside that door for a long time.
Not knocking. Not leaving.
Just listening.
To the quiet between them.
[Timeskip, further in the day]
The maids found it first.
The message on the steamed-up bathroom mirror, carved in blood.
“You will never have me.”
Clean lines, all uppercase. Cold.
Eric arrived within minutes. The staff scattered.
He didn’t ask why. Didn’t ask how.
He walked into Zhai’s room and slammed the door shut behind him.
Zhai was seated on the bed, thumb wrapped in a towel, calm.
“Was that supposed to scare me?” Eric’s voice was low. Controlled. A warning in itself.
Zhai looked up with his foxlike face and said flatly:
“A reminder. Since you seem to forget.”
That was it.
The spark.
Eric crossed the room in three strides, grabbing Zhai by the jaw and shoving him against the wall.
“You think I don’t know I can’t have your heart? I never asked for it.”
“Then stop pretending this is love.”
Eric growled.
Then tore the towel off Zhai’s thumb, licked the blood, kissed the cut, then bit it.
Zhai winced—but didn't make a sound.
And that was all it took.
The room turned animal.
Eric didn’t hold back. The second forced time it happened. Rougher. No tenderness. No illusions.
Zhai gritted his teeth through the entire thing.
When it was over, he laid there.
Bleeding. Bruised. But those blue eyes?
Still not broken.
Eric touched Zhai’s cheek, just barely.
“You’ll mark me eventually. Whether you want to or not.”
Zhai turned his face away.
“Don’t count on it.”
Eric left the room with shaking hands.
And Zhai?
He stared at the ceiling, whispering:
“You can’t break what was never yours to begin with.”
[A few weeks later.]
It started with nausea.
Zhai chalked it up to stress. To sleepless nights and too much hate burning in his throat.
But when he threw up three times before breakfast, the maids noticed. Whispered. Watched.
By noon, Eric was informed.
By one, Zhai was dragged — protesting, spitting curses — into the private medical wing of the mansion.
Tests. Silence. Then…
“He’s pregnant.”
Zhai froze.
Eric didn’t speak for a full minute. Just stared at the doctor, then at Zhai.
Then smiled. Too slow. Too calm. Too wrong.
“Now you’re really mine, Zhai. Forever.”
Zhai looked at the ultrasound screen with dead eyes.
“You think this changes anything?”
Eric stepped closer, brushing a hand over Zhai’s stomach like it was sacred.
“No. I never expected love. I only needed a reason for you to stay.”
Zhai shoved his hand away.
“Then congratulations, Eric. You’ve created your own prison.”
Eric left the room, giddy with something far worse than happiness.
Possession.
And Zhai? He sat on the cold exam table, numb.
Not broken. Not yet.
But the beginning of the end had started.
Inside him.
[Next day]
The maids decorated the nursery in soft pastels. Stuffed animals, polished cribs, lullaby music playing low in the background.
Zhai stood at the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.
His vibrant blue eyes reflected none of the warmth that now filled the room.
“Cute,” he muttered. “For something born from violence.”
Eric walked up behind him, arms loose at his sides. “You don’t have to keep glaring. This isn’t for you. It’s for our child.”
Zhai didn’t turn. “It’s not our anything.”
Pregnancy didn’t soften Zhai. If anything, it sharpened him—like a blade honed on pressure and rage.
He still refused to eat unless he had control over how the food was served. He still refused to cry.
Still refused to give Eric what he wanted most: affection. A sliver of surrender.
Eric, on the other hand, changed.
Gentler touches. Less violence. Less force. Like he believed the baby would fix what he'd already broken.
He would tuck a blanket over Zhai’s lap when he fell asleep. Bring him rare fruits. Sit beside him without speaking.
And Zhai? He’d flinch. Every time. Not from fear.
From loathing.
From the reminder that he was carrying the child of a man who thought obsession could replace love.
Late one night, Zhai stood before a full-length mirror in his room. His hand hovered over his small bump.
“You didn’t ask for this,” he whispered to the life inside him.
But neither did he.
[9 months later.]
The screams echoed through the mansion like an omen.
Zhai’s voice, hoarse from hours of labor, shattered the silence. The maids flinched. One of them cried.
Eric didn’t move. He stood at the door of the private medical room, hands clenched behind his back.
No hand-holding.
No whispers of comfort.
No promises.
Only the sound of pain. Of war.
And then—
A cry.
Small. Piercing. Alive.
The doctor wrapped the newborn in white, offered a glance at Eric.
Eric stepped forward, ignoring the blood, the mess, the wreckage that Zhai had become. He took the child in his arms.
“Zheiric,” he whispered. “Zheiric Jian Nyx.”
The name hit the air like a prophecy.
He looked down at the infant — dark red hair already visible. Pale porcelain skin. When the child blinked, vibrant blue eyes peeked open.
Just like Zhai’s.
Zhai lay weak and torn on the bed, eyes burning with silent rage.
“Don’t name him,” he rasped.
Eric smiled softly, voice low. “Too late. He’s mine.”
Zhai turned his face away.
For three days, he refused to look at either of them.
He refused to touch the child.
He refused to speak to Eric.
But Eric? He held the baby every night like a prize. Whispered stories of blood and ownership. Brushed his finger along his son’s perfect lashes.
“Even your blood is mine, Zhai.”
And Zhai, awake but silent, stared at the ceiling like it was the only thing not trying to claim him.
_____________________________________________________
Zhai’s hands trembled the first time he held Zheiric alone.
Not with tenderness, but with icy precision.
He wrapped the baby carefully in a dark blanket, eyes flickering with fierce protectiveness — but no warmth.
Strict rules already forming in his mind for when Zheiric grows up.
“Don’t cry without reason.”
“Don’t get spoiled.”
“Don’t be soft.”
When Eric entered, Zhai’s jaw tightened.
Eric’s turquoise eyes locked onto the child’s — then to Zhai’s — a dangerous smile curling at his lips.
“His eyes,” Eric murmured. “Your blue, not mine.”
Zhai’s gaze hardened.
Leaning close to Zheiric, voice low and sharp, he whispered, “Don’t be like your father.”
Zheiric’s small fingers curled, twitching almost like a warning.
A flicker of something wild flashed in his vibrant blue eyes — a spark of the madness lurking beneath the surface.
Eric watched from the doorway, amused, obsessed.
He saw it already — his son was a grenade, a mirror of their twisted legacy.
Zhai clenched his fists, biting back the truth:
He might not break… but his son was already cracking.
[3 years later.]
The sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the estate’s private shooting range.
Zhai’s hands were steady now—cold, precise, lethal.
He fought back. Against Eric. Against the cage that had become his life.
But the walls around him closed in tighter.
Eric’s voice was calm, deadly as always.
“Zheiric,” he said one evening, watching their son like a hawk, “is ready to learn. Knives at three.”
Zhai’s stomach twisted.
That night, in the dark hallway, their argument exploded.
Words like knives, and then—
Hands rough against Zhai’s body, slamming him against the cold wall.
Eric’s lips brushing his ear, low and vicious:
“You hate me. But you still came.”
Zhai’s breath hitched, fury and disgust mixing with something darker.
He hated Eric.
But still, he didn’t leave.
Because the chains weren’t just physical anymore.
They were in his mind.
In his blood.
[Like, 2 hours later.]
The moonlight streamed faintly through the dense forest outside, but Zhai’s gaze was fixed on the narrow path beyond the estate’s edge.
Tonight, he tried again.
Silent, careful, heart pounding with every step toward freedom.
But freedom was a lie.
Before he even reached the treeline, heavy footsteps thudded behind him.
Strong arms grabbed him, dragging him back. Ugh, guards.
Back into the cold walls he tried to escape.
Eric waited for him in the grand hallway, his presence dark and terrifying.
Without a word, Eric clenched his fist, crushing a wine glass until it shattered, blood dripping from his palm.
Cold turquoise eyes burned into Zhai’s.
“You don’t get to run,” Eric said, voice low, deadly calm.
“You’re not a prisoner. You’re mine.”
Zhai’s glare met his, unbroken.
But deep inside, the cage tightened once more.
Because sometimes, choosing to stay isn’t freedom—it’s survival.
_____________________________________
The room was heavy with unspoken tension.
Zhai’s hand trembled slightly, but his grip on the gun was steady—cold and unwavering.
He pressed the barrel against Eric’s temple.
Eric’s turquoise eyes never flinched.
He simply smiled, dark and unreadable.
“Go ahead,” Eric whispered.
“Show me.”
But Zhai didn’t pull the trigger.
Instead, he slowly removed the safety, eyes burning with defiance as he handed the gun back.
Eric caught it without hesitation, eyes narrowing, a new respect—or was it amusement?—hidden beneath his calm exterior.
In the corner, silent and still, Zheiric watched.
His young eyes reflected the coldness between the two men, absorbing every move, every breath.
Learning what power really meant.
[This is supposed to be Chapter 14: The Chains We Choose]
Zhai sat in the vast living room, the cold light filtering through heavy curtains.
He accepted the unthinkable—this twisted life, this cruel bond—but his heart remained a fortress, unyielding.
He would never surrender emotionally.
Eric’s sister arrived quietly, her presence a ghost in the mansion’s halls.
She knew about Zhai. About Zheiric.
She said nothing. No intervention.
No rescue.
Eric handed over the family company to her, a quiet abdication of legacy.
Meanwhile, in the darkest corners of the city, whispers spread like wildfire.
They called him “The Crimson Boss.”
A ruthless mafia lord cloaked in blood and power.
Eric’s empire was born from obsession—and Zhai’s chains grew heavier with every passing day.
_____________________________________________
[Next night.]
The room smelled of sweat and tension.
Zhai gave in—his body no longer fighting, but his heart still clenched tight like a fist.
Their brutal dance unfolded: violent, desperate, utterly void of tenderness.
Eric’s grip was possessive, ruthless—dominating without mercy.
When it was over, Eric leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Zhai’s forehead.
Zhai wiped it away with a cold hand, silent and unmoved.
They stepped onto the balcony, the night thick around them.
Below, Zheiric played with knives—sharp, reckless, and disturbingly calm.
The boy’s laughter cut through the dark air like a warning.
The cycle was unbroken.
The chains were never-ending.
And Zhai, bound by blood and broken by choice, knew—he would die with Eric’s name.
[SUPPOSED TO BE OFFICIAL END.]
[HERE'S A SPECIAL PART.]
[4 YEARS LATER, ERIC & ZHAI - 25, ZHEIRIC - 7]
Zhai’s silhouette cut through the dim light of the mafia agency.
Clad in all black — a sleeveless turtleneck and a white leather jacket slipping casually off his arms — shades perched atop his tousled blonde-orange hair.
He moved with ruthless confidence, a sassy, strict defiance that made the air crackle.
In one hand, he carried Eric’s lunch. In the other, Zheiric’s small, steady hand.
Zheiric’s eyes, vibrant blue like Zhai’s, scanned the room coldly, his presence unmistakably Eric’s — calm yet ready to explode.
Whispers fell silent as Zhai passed.
The underlings feared him more than the Crimson Boss himself.
Because beneath the sharp edges and the icy glare was the lethal truth: this was the Mafia boss’s wife — a force no one dared challenge.
The mafia agency buzzed with low murmurs, but all eyes stayed on Zhai — the sassy, lethal queen reigning over this den of shadows.
Zheiric, no more than seven but already wielding a blade with unsettling ease, grinned devilishly as he toyed with the sharp edge.
Zhai’s ice-blue gaze locked onto him instantly.
“Stop smiling,” Zhai snapped, voice low but thunderous enough to hush the room.
Zheiric tilted his head, his innocent face belying the dangerous glint in his vibrant blue eyes.
“But Papa said I could practice. He said pain is power.”
Zhai stepped closer, tone razor-sharp: “You’re not allowed to enjoy hurting people until you’re ten. That’s the rule.”
Zheiric’s brow furrowed, lips pouting slightly. “But Papa—”
Zhai’s hand shot out, grabbing Zheiric’s small shoulder and twisting it with a practiced grip.
“I will dislocate your shoulder if you don’t behave,” he warned, voice calm but deadly.
Zheiric flinched, but didn’t pull away.
The underlings exchanged nervous glances — no one dared cross Zhai, not even the boy who carried the madness of both his parents.
Zhai released him, folding his arms as he surveyed the room.
“Remember,” he said coldly, “obedience keeps you alive.”
Zheiric smirked just a little before slipping his blade away.
Zhai’s gaze softened—just a fraction—and he muttered, “For now.”
Eric’s agency wasn’t just a battlefield — it was a classroom of ruthless lessons. And Zhai was the strictest teacher.
___________________________________________________
Zhai stepped into the mafia agency, every inch the queen in black — sleeveless turtleneck hugging his lithe frame, white leather jacket slipping off his shoulders like a warning. His sunglasses perched on his head, not hiding the lethal coldness in his vibrant blue eyes.
Zheiric clutched the lunch boxes in one hand, watching as Zhai’s gaze snapped toward Eric’s desk.
There, like a parasite, a slender omega-like boy clung to Eric, his voice a low, sweet murmur that made Zhai’s jaw tighten.
Without a word, Zhai walked past them, the soft click of his boots echoing.
He dropped the food onto Eric’s desk with a heavy thud, eyes immediately locking on the boy.
“Touch him again,” Zhai said, voice calm but dead serious, “and I’ll blow your pelvis apart.”
His gaze scanned the boy up and down, the boredom in his eyes sharp and dismissive.
His hand raised slowly, fingers slender and pale, revealing the ring on his middle finger — the same ring Eric wore on his own hand.
The silent message was clear: I own him. You’re nothing.
Zhai’s glare pierced like a blade, the insult hidden beneath the surface only sharp minds could decode.
You don’t even have the body shape to pull this off. I’m the one they really fear. You? You’re just a pretty little snake waiting to be crushed.
Eric’s laptop sat open, but Zhai didn’t hesitate — his hand slid over and closed it without permission.
A hush fell over the room. Everyone watched, breath held. If anyone else dared that, Eric would have torn their head off.
Zhai’s fingers moved subtly, pulling a sleek gun from his jacket pocket. It gleamed cold and unforgiving at his hip.
Zheiric tugged on Zhai’s sleeve, voice quiet but curious. “Papa, can I—”
Zhai cut him off without looking. “No. Not today.”
The staff exchanged uneasy glances, the unspoken truth hanging thick in the air: They feared the boss’s wife more than they feared the boss himself.
And Zhai? He was loving every second of it.
[FEW DAYS LATER]
A few days later, Zhai strode into the principal’s office at the elite private school with Zheiric trailing silently behind him.
The principal stood nervously by her desk, clutching a stack of papers like they could protect her from what was coming.
Zhai’s gaze didn’t waver — cold, razor-sharp — as he looked her up and down like she was nothing but trash beneath his boots.
“You’re lucky he didn’t kill your student,” Zhai said, voice low and dangerously calm.
“That’s improvement.”
The principal swallowed hard, unsure whether to be relieved or terrified.
Zheiric, standing beside Zhai, was calm — almost too calm — but his eyes flickered with the same storm brewing inside his father.
The monster was growing.
[LAST, ONE MORNING...]
Zhai woke slowly, the early morning light barely touching the room.
Next to him, Eric’s dark red hair spilled messily across the pillow, face soft and relaxed in sleep — almost peaceful.
Without thinking, Zhai reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Eric’s forehead.
His fingers trembled for a second, then froze mid-air.
What had he just done?
He pulled back sharply, heart hammering.
Eric’s eyes snapped open, catching that small, impossible gesture in the dim light.
A slow, cruel smile curled on Eric’s lips.
“Almost,” he whispered.
Zhai didn’t reply. He turned and walked away, leaving the fragile thread dangling between them — so close to something dangerous, but not quite there.
The chains were still tightening.
Madness was still theirs.
And love? Not yet.
