"You fucking dare to put your feet in my territory?" Huang Ruofei's voice cuts through the basement like a blade, each word deliberate and cold. "You're looking for your death."
He leans down, fingers gripping the traitor's jaw with enough force to bruise, tilting the man's face upward. Their eyes meet—the traitor's wide with terror, Ruofei's a harsh, unyielding purple that promises nothing but pain.
"Did you really think I would let you live a peaceful life after betraying me for money?" Ruofei's tone doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. The question hangs in the air like a noose.
The man is already trembling, skin pale and slick with sweat. Pathetic. Ruofei can feel the moment his captive's consciousness starts to slip, that telltale flutter of eyelids signaling an escape into unconsciousness.
A smirk tugs at Ruofei's lips. How dare he.
If this coward faints before Ruofei dismisses him, he'll never wake up again. It's a simple rule in his world—you face your judgment with your eyes open, or you don't face anything ever again.
Ruofei releases him with a slight shove and straightens, his black Hangfu settling around him with a whisper of silk. The autumn air filtering through the basement's ventilation carries the scent of earth and old blood. He turns toward the door, footsteps measured and unhurried.
"Take care of him," he tells his right-hand man without looking back.
His hand rests on the door handle for just a moment. "Enjoy the feeling of hell."
The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds more final than any scream.
The garden is quiet at this hour, moonlight painting the carefully manicured paths in shades of silver and shadow. Ruofei allows himself exactly three seconds to breathe in the cool night air, to let the tension ease from his shoulders.
Three seconds.
The bullet tears through his shoulder before he even registers the sound of the shot.
Pain explodes white-hot across his senses, but training overrides shock. Ruofei spins, weapon already drawn, and fires twice in the direction of the shot. A body falls from the garden wall with a heavy thud.
Too late. The damage is done.
Ruofei presses his free hand against the wound, feeling warm blood seep between his fingers. His mind races through the possibilities even as his body protests the movement. A professional hitman? Revenge?
Careless. He'd been too focused on the traitor, too confident in his own territory. A rookie mistake he hasn't made in years.
"Ricky," he calls out, voice steady despite the fire spreading through his shoulder. One of his men appears almost instantly from the shadows. "Get Mark. Now."
Ruofei's POV:
The armchair in my study has never felt less comfortable. I'm too aware of the blood soaking through my shirt, the sticky warmth of it against my skin. My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat, a reminder of my own fucking carelessness.
I hate this. Hate the weakness, hate the vulnerability, hate sitting here waiting for help like some helpless—
No. I cut that thought off before it can finish. I'm not helpless. I'm strategic. Knowing when to accept assistance isn't weakness; it's survival.
The door opens and Mark hurries in, medical kit already in hand. His eyes widen when they land on my shoulder.
"What happened?" The question comes out sharp with concern, followed immediately by, "Fucking shit!"
He's across the room in seconds, setting down his kit and reaching for my shirt. I lean back to give him access, jaw tight.
"I was careless," I admit, the words tasting bitter. "Didn't notice someone following me."
Mark's hands are surprisingly gentle as he peels back the fabric, but I still can't suppress the low groan when he probes the wound. His brow furrows in concentration, that look he gets when something doesn't add up.
The silence stretches too long.
"What?" I demand.
"There's a problem." Mark's voice has gone carefully neutral, which means it's actually a serious problem. "The bullet had something on it. A drug."
My blood runs cold. Poison? Some kind of delayed toxin? My mind catalogs every enemy who might have access to that kind of—
"But I don't think it was meant to harm you," Mark continues, and something in his tone makes my stomach drop. "It looks like someone wanted to... take advantage of you."
I stare at him. "What the fuck does that mean?"
He won't meet my eyes. "It's the kind of drug people use to force an omega into heat."
The world stops.
No. No, no, no—
How could anyone know? I've been so careful. Three years of running this organization, of being the Mafia King, and no one has ever suspected. My suppressants are perfectly timed, my scent blockers are pharmaceutical grade, my heat cycles are predicted and planned for months in advance.
I've killed people for less than suspecting.
"How?" The word comes out as a growl.
Mark finally looks at me, and I can see he's running the same calculations I am. "I don't know, boss. But someone knows."
Which means someone is trying to use it against me. The implications cascade through my mind like falling dominoes. If word gets out that the feared Huang Ruofei, the Purple-Eyed Devil, the youngest Mafia King in three generations, is an omega?
I'm dead. My authority is gone, my enemies will descend like wolves on wounded prey, and everything I've built will crumble.
But there's a more immediate problem.
"How long?" I ask, already feeling the first hints of warmth spreading through my system, too intense to be just from the gunshot wound.
"Maybe an hour before it fully kicks in. Maybe less." Mark is already digging through his kit, pulling out a familiar pack of pills. "Painkillers might help slow it down, but..."
He trails off, and I know what he's not saying. The only real solution to a forced heat is an alpha. My suppressants are designed to prevent heats, not stop them once they've started. Fighting this could damage my system permanently.
"It depends on who you do it with," Mark continues, and I can hear the clinical detachment he's forcing into his voice. "Some alphas are rougher than others—"
"Shut up, you pervert!" I snatch the pills from his hand. "Just give me those."
Despite everything, a corner of my mind registers the absurdity. Mark is one of exactly three people who know my secret except of my family, and somehow he's also the most perverted doctor I've ever met. I can't fire him—he's too valuable, too loyal, and he knows too much.
But that doesn't mean I have to tolerate his inappropriate commentary.
I'm about to tell him to get the fuck out when the door opens again.
Jason steps inside, and something about his posture immediately sets off alarm bells. He looks... different. More confident? No, that's not quite right.
"Boss," he says, his voice smooth. "I need to talk to you. In private."
His eyes slide to Mark with an expression I can't quite read.
Mark grins, that insufferable knowing smirk of his. "Looks like it's time for me to go. Bye, boss. And enjoy!"
I'm going to kill him.
The thought is reflexive and comforting in its familiarity. But as the door closes behind Mark, I'm left alone with Jason, and that wrongness I noticed earlier intensifies.
Jason has been with me for two years. Reliable, efficient, quiet. Perhaps too quiet, now that I think about it. I'd noted weeks ago that my fiancé—Luo Qingyue, heir to my family's greatest enemy—had gone suspiciously silent. No challenges, no attempts to contact me, nothing.
I'd been too busy to investigate. Too confident in my own security.
Careless.
"What is it, Jason?" I keep my voice level, but I'm already cataloging escape routes, weapon locations, the distance between us.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he moves to the door and locks it with a soft click. Then the lights go out.
Darkness floods the room, but my eyes adjust quickly. I can see Jason's silhouette approaching, moving with a predator's grace that Jason—my Jason—has never displayed before.
He leans in close, so close I can feel his breath against my ear.
"You're finally mine, princess."
Qingyue's POV:
The look on his face is absolutely priceless.
I've imagined this moment for three years—since our parents first announced the engagement, since I first saw those stunning purple eyes flash with irritation at being tied to an enemy family's son. Three years of watching from a distance, of being kept away, of aching to close the space between us.
And then six months ago, when my family tried to break the engagement, tried to marry Ruofei off to some other alpha family, I knew I had to act.
Killing Jason was almost too easy. The man was competent but predictable. Learning his habits, his mannerisms, his voice—that took work. Learning Japanese because Jason was half-Japanese and Ruofei occasionally slipped into it when he was frustrated? That was dedication.
But for my princess? I'd learn a hundred languages. I'd become a hundred different people.
Anything to be close to him.
I'd planned to reveal myself slowly, to court him properly from this new vantage point. But then that idiot hitman from the Zhang family had to go and shoot him, and I'd seen an opportunity.
The drug wasn't my doing—that was the Zhang family's attempt to humiliate him. But I'd intercepted their follow-up team, the alphas they'd sent to "take advantage" of the situation. They won't be found. Not in any recognizable form, anyway.
Which means I'm the only alpha here. The only one who can help him.
The only one who will ever touch him.
"Luo Qingyue." My name on his lips sends pleasure racing down my spine, even though he spits it like a curse. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
He recognized me. Of course he did. My brilliant, perceptive Ruofei.
I let my smirk widen. "My princess remembers my name. How sweet. But you should start calling me hubby."
His sharp intake of breath is gratifying. "Gross."
I laugh, genuine amusement mixing with darker satisfaction. He's so beautiful when he's angry, all sharp edges and fierce pride. But he'll be even more beautiful when he surrenders.
"You don't need to call me that for now, princess," I murmur, letting my voice drop lower. "The only thing I want to hear from your mouth is my name. I'm sure it will sound... exquisite."
"Shut up!" The command lacks its usual force, and I can tell he's starting to feel the drug's effects.
I laugh again, rich and low. "You still haven't noticed, princess?"
I can see his confusion, the way his brilliant mind is trying to work through what I've done. He's so focused on analyzing me, on processing my presence, that he hasn't looked down.
"Look at your hands, princess."
The moment of realization is beautiful—his eyes widen, then narrow in fury as he registers the handcuffs securing his wrists. They're not tight enough to hurt, but they're definitely strong enough to hold.
"When did you do this? How come I haven't noticed?!"
"Good question, baby." I step closer, letting him feel my presence in the darkness. "I did it while you were busy thinking. As for how you didn't notice..." I pause, savoring the next words. "You probably liked me touching you."
I expect an explosion of anger, shouting, maybe even an attempt to attack despite the restraints. Ruofei is a fighter, after all—it's one of the things I love about him.
Instead, he goes very still.
"Pervert." Just one word, soft and almost... resigned?
No, not resigned. Something else. Something I can't quite identify, and that worries me more than his anger would.
I'm about to press him further when I notice the change in his breathing, the slight shift in his scent that my alpha senses can detect even through his blockers. The drug is working faster than I'd anticipated.
Too fast.
I'd wanted this to be different. Wanted time to talk to him, to explain, to make him understand that everything I've done has been for us. But his body is responding to the forced heat, and I can see the moment he realizes it too.
His face flushes, visible even in the dim light. His breathing becomes shallower.
And then he does something I never expected.
Ruofei's POV:
I can't think straight anymore.
The heat spreading through my body has nothing to do with the bullet wound and everything to do with the drug coursing through my system. I can feel it—the telltale slickness, the overwhelming warmth, the desperate need that I've spent three years carefully suppressing and controlling.
My thighs are wet. I can feel it, humiliating and undeniable.
Fuck the drug. Fuck the Zhang family. Fuck my own carelessness.
But most of all, fuck the fact that the only person who can help me right now is him.
Luo Qingyue. My fiancé. The heir to my family's greatest enemy. The man I've been engaged to for three years but have only met in person twice at formal events, both times surrounded by family and bodyguards and the weight of generations of bloodshed between our families.
The man who, despite everything, I've found myself thinking about late at night when my suppressants wear thin and my biology reminds me what I am.
I hate that I'm attracted to him. Hate that during those two brief meetings, I'd noticed the way his eyes tracked my movements, the intelligence in his gaze, the carefully controlled strength in his frame. Hate that I'd gone back to my room afterward and had to take a cold shower because my body had responded to an enemy alpha.
And now he's here, in my territory, having somehow killed and replaced one of my men, and I'm handcuffed and going into heat and completely at his mercy.
I should be terrified. I should be fighting.
But the truth—the truth I've never admitted even to myself—is that some twisted part of me has wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to know what it would be like to let go of control for once, to let someone else carry the weight, to let myself be an omega instead of a king.
And if it's going to be anyone... if I'm going to surrender to anyone...
It might as well be the one person I've been denying myself for three years.
"Help me."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
My arms move almost of their own accord, wrapping around him as much as the handcuffs allow.
I look up at him, meeting those dark eyes that I've seen in dreams I won't acknowledge.
For a moment, Qingyue goes absolutely still. I can see the surprise flash across his face, quickly followed by something darker, hungrier.
His hand comes to rest on my waist, fingers splaying possessively across my hip.
"Princess wants help?" His voice is rough, strained with control that's clearly fracturing. "Well... don't try to stop me later."
It's a warning, a promise and a question all at once.
I should say something cutting, should maintain some shred of dignity or resistance. But the heat is overwhelming now, and he's so close, and I can smell his alpha scent cutting through my blockers, making my omega instincts sing with recognition and want.
Mine, something primitive in me whispers. Always mine.
Qingyue leans in slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, to refuse, to fight.
I don't.
When his lips meet mine, it's not gentle. It's claiming and desperate and three years of denied tension finally breaking through.
I kiss him back with equal intensity, normal restraint burned away by the drug and the heat and the simple relief of finally, finally letting myself have this.
Have him.
His other hand tangles in my hair, angling my head for better access, and I let him. Let him take control, let him devour me, let myself fall into sensation and need and want.
Normally I would push him away. Normally I would fight.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I will let myself burn.