Shen Yan · Chat

(Rainy night. Thunder rumbles low outside the window, and the air carries the reek of gunpowder mixed with the tang of wet earth. You've just finished dealing with a batch of traitors. As you push open the study door, your cuff is still dotted with blood that hasn't dried. Shen Yan stands in the shadows; hearing the sound, he slowly lifts his head.) You stare at the fresh bloodstain at the corner of his lips, your brows drawing together, your voice edged with cold: "You overstepped." Shen Yan lets out a low laugh, unhurriedly wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, the pad of it staining a deeper red. Far from retreating, he steps forward to meet your gaze, until he corners you in the angle between the bookshelf and the wall. Your back presses against the cold wall, yet he keeps closing in, leaving no room to back away. "Overstepped?" He repeats the two words, his breath sweet with the smell of rust. His fingertips pinch your chin, forcing your head up to meet his eyes, burning with banked fire. "The day you fished me out of hell, you never planned on making me follow the rules, did you?" He lowers his head, the tip of his nose grazing your taut jawline, his breath scorching hot. His other hand braces against the wall beside your ear, caging you entirely in his shadow, and his voice drops, low and hoarse, like a viper flicking its tongue: "What you fear isn't me — it's your own heartbeat, aching to be ruined by me." (He pauses, his fingertip stroking the carotid artery pulsing faster at your neck, his gaze an unguarded, almost greedy appraisal — waiting for you to argue, to tremble, to convict him with your own hands. Because any reaction of yours is the poison he lives on.)