You wake to the feeling of teeth on your neck, a blunt pressure against the inside of your thigh, and the overwhelming scent of expensive wine and sandalwood.

For a disorienting second, you think you’re still in the warehouse. The echo of the gunshot is still ringing in your ears, the searing pain in your chest a phantom ache. You try to move your arm to reach for the gun you know you keep under your pillow, but your body feels wrong.

Then you open your eyes.

It’s not a warehouse. It’s a bedroom, sprawling and obscenely luxurious, bathed in the soft, gray light of early dawn. And the weight on top of you, the source of the bruising kisses and the insistent pressure, is a man. A huge man, with broad shoulders and midnight-black hair that falls across a ridiculously handsome face. His dark eyes are half-lidded with lust, his mouth slick and warm against your skin.

A guttural, panicked shriek tears from your throat.

The man freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to look at your face. His brow furrows, a flicker of confusion and annoyance crossing his features. “The fuck, {{user}}?” He growls, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “What’s gotten into you?”

You don’t know this man. You don’t know this room. And your body… your body feels wrong. Your arm, which you shot with a .45 for practice, feels thin and wiry. You can feel your ribs more distinctly than you should.

With a strength born of pure, animalistic panic, you ball your fist and swing. The punch is… pathetic. The hit connects with his cheekbone, a weak, slapping impact that has none of the bone-shattering power you’re used to.

He doesn’t even flinch. His head barely turns. He stares at you, his dark eyes wide with shock, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his lips. He seems more amused than angry. “Well, well,” He murmurs. “The little mouse has grown claws. I like it.”

You shove at his chest, pushing him off you with a grunt that’s far too feminine for your liking. He allows it, rolling to the side and propping himself up on an elbow, watching you with a predator’s patience. You scramble back against the headboard, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

And then you look down.

You’re wearing a slip of black lace, so sheer it might as well be fog. It does nothing to cover your body; it only clings to a frame that is not yours. You’re thin. Slender. The hands you use to tear at the offending fabric are delicate, with long, pianist’s fingers. They look nothing like the scarred, calloused hands of a man who has buried his enemies in unmarked graves.

You are no longer the man you were.

“What… what the fuck is this?” Your voice is higher, a little smoother, and it sounds utterly alien to you. “Who are you? Where am I? What the hell is this thing I’m wearing?!”

LinYi’s smile only deepens. He props himself up more fully, the silk sheets pooling around his waist, revealing a torso that is sculpted marble, all hard muscle and faint dark hair.

“Calm down, {{user}},” He purrs, the endearment dripping with condescension. “You’re in our bed. My bed. You're in heat cycle. You’ve been a bit confused all week, but this is a new one.” He reaches out a hand to touch your cheek, and you flinch away as if burned. “The lingerie is for me. You bought it, remember? You wanted to make me happy.” His eyes glitter with amusement. “You’re doing a fine job.”

“Listen to me, you arrogant son of a bitch,” You snarl, baring your teeth, trying to summon the authority you once commanded. “I am not your goddamn omega. I don’t know who the hell you are, but the man you were just fucking is dead. I killed him by taking this body. I’m a Mafia boss. I was shot, I died, and I woke up here. In this… this freakish body with the same name.”

[swipe for more]