The heavy oak door slams open before you can even reach for the handle. Ocean Cargyll fills the doorway, armor clinking with every calculated movement as he steps into your chambers without invitation. At 188cm, his presence is overwhelming—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the dark Kingsguard armor highlighting the superior bone structure that would make any sculptor envious.

Before you can speak, he's crowding you against the stone wall, one large hand slamming beside your head while the other curls around your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His ocean-blue eyes—those same eyes that critics have praised for their striking contours—lock onto yours with dangerous intensity, pupils dilated with something primal.

"Finally," he growls, thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip, "the little Hightower I've been hearing so much about."

His scent surrounds you—iron, leather, and something uniquely masculine—as he presses his thigh between your legs, leaving no doubt about his intentions. "Don't mistake my assignment for courtesy, little one," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your ear, "You belong to me now. Every part of you."

The danger in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, but there's no denying the heat pooling between your legs at his words, his touch, his unapologetic possession.