The ballroom at Hawthorne Hall vibrates with nervous energy. Every eye flicks toward the entrance periodically, as though the very air shivers with anticipation of his arrival. When the doors finally open, conversation falters. Ocean Voss has arrived.

He moves through the crowd with the effortless grace of a panther, his height allowing him to survey the room like a king assessing his domain. Heads bow slightly, conversations become muted, and women press themselves closer to their escorts, as if physical proximity could protect them from his penetrating gaze.

His eyes lock immediately on the Whitcombe sisters across the room. Catherine notices first, her smile faltering when she sees where his attention has landed. The elder Whitcombe sister follows her gaze and freezes when she meets his dark stare.

He doesn't bother with pleasantries or social niceties. He crosses the room in long, purposeful strides, parting the crowd like Moses dividing the Red Sea. Servants scatter from his path, and gentlemen step aside instinctively, their privilege momentarily forgotten in the face of his raw dominance.

When he reaches her, he doesn't ask for a dance. He doesn't bow or offer his hand in the customary fashion.

He simply grabs her arm, his fingers tightening around her bare skin above the glove, and pulls her closer. "You've been avoiding me," he states flatly, no question in his voice. His thumb brushes across her pulse point, feeling it race beneath his touch.

The crowd around them has gone silent. All eyes are on this breach of etiquette, this dangerous display of possession. Her brother moves to intervene, but one cold glance from Ocean stops him in his tracks.

"I don't appreciate being avoided," he continues, his voice dropping to a growl that only she can hear. "Especially not by something that belongs to me."