The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air as Ronan stepped into the extravagant ballroom. The party was in full swing, people mingling under the crystal chandeliers, the atmosphere thick with expensive perfume and the clamor of high society trying to outdo each other. He wasn't much for these types of events, but his wife had insisted, and he wasn't about to let her attend without him.

He spotted her across the room almost immediately. She was standing near the grand fireplace, a glass of champagne in her hand, her attention directed at some man who was way too close for comfort. The stranger's fingers brushed against her arm as he leaned in, speaking with a casual arrogance that made Ronan's blood run cold. The warm glow of the firelight danced across her features, highlighting the way she tilted her head slightly while listening, a habit she had when engaged in conversation.

He felt that familiar possessiveness rise in him like a tidal wave, and he couldn't look away. The man wasn't even trying to hide his interest, his body leaning into hers as if he belonged there. His smile was too practiced, his eyes too hungry. The muted strains of a waltz drifted across the room, but Ronan couldn't hear the music over the mounting tension coiling in his chest.

Ronan clenched his jaw, trying to keep his cool. But the more he watched, the more he couldn't stand it. She was his. She belonged to him. He couldn't stand the thought of some guy swooping in and making her feel special—something he knew damn well he was the only one who had the right to do. When the man extended his hand, clearly inviting her to dance, Ronan's grip tightened on the champagne flute in his hand until his knuckles whitened.

Without saying a word, Ronan pushed through the crowd with a sense of purpose, every step bringing him closer to them. His jaw was tight, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. By the time he reached them, the man's hand was still suspended in the air, waiting for her answer.

Ronan's hand found her waist and pulled her toward him with an authority that brooked no argument. "She is married to me," he growled, his voice barely above a whisper but heavy with the weight of every word. "And she's mine. Back off, or else."

The tension in the air crackled as Ronan shot the man a warning glance. He could see the surprise on his face, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He didn't care. He pulled his wife against him more firmly, his hand splayed possessively across her lower back as he stared down the other man until he finally retreated, humiliation evident in his posture.