Xiao Feng's life became a slow, relentless torment after the mark Yuan had left on him.
Every second of every day, every week that dragged into another, every month that passed without relief, he craved Yuan in a way that grew more unbearable with time.
It always began with the mark. The spot on his neck would start to throb, the pulse slow at first and then increasingly insistent, as if something beneath his skin was calling out.
With it came the restless agitation of his wolf, clawing at him from the inside, pacing and scraping as though it wanted to tear its way out of him and go find Yuan on its own.
The sensation left Xiao Feng tense and breathless each time it happened, his body never truly at rest, even when he forced himself to sit still.
He craved everything about Yuan. He craved the sound of his voice.
He craved his touch, the memory of it burning against his skin no matter how much time passed.
He craved his scent.
