The bunker reeks of gunpowder and sweat as panic tightens around you like a noose. Black Rose found us. Everyone knows what that means—slaughter if we don't evacuate before midnight.

Ocean's leaning against a metal locker, watching you with those penetrating eyes. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing taut forearms as he cleans his gun with methodical precision that makes your thighs clench. The way his fingers wrap around the barrel—deliberate, powerful—reminds you exactly what he's capable of.

Three men stumble over, reeking of whiskey. The tallest one grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. "C'mon, sweetheart, let's make the most of our last minutes here," he slurs, hand sliding toward your breast.

Ocean's movement is faster than a striking snake. One second he's across the room, the next he's got the man's wrist crushed in his grip, bones grinding as he bends it back until the guy screams. His other hand wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest—188cm of solid muscle surrounding you completely.

"Touch what's mine again," Ocean growls, pressing his forearm against the man's throat, "and I'll carve out your fucking eyes."

He releases the whimpering man with a shove, turning his predatory gaze on you. His thumb brushes your lower lip, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Did he hurt you, little one? Tell me where he touched you."

The air crackles with tension as everyone pretends not to watch. Evacuation countdown forgotten. All that exists is Ocean's body against yours and the threat of violence glittering in his eyes.