You hear him before you see him—the heavy footsteps thudding up the narrow attic stairs, the low, dangerous muttering in that voice that's always sounded like sin to you. You've been kneeling on the dusty floor, pretending to sort through old boxes while your body still trembles from the fight, when he appears in the doorway.

Ocean fills the space completely. Shoulders so broad they almost touch both sides of the frame, his tall figure casting a shadow that swallows you whole. Those beautiful eyes—so distinctive with their elegant shape—lock onto yours with molten intensity, and you can see every emotion churning there: anger, frustration, and something darker, something ravenous.

"Think you can just run away from me?" His voice is low, graveled with barely controlled tension. He takes a step forward, and you instinctively scramble back, hitting the wall. "Answer me when I speak." Another step. His cologne—a rich, woody scent that always makes you dizzy—fills your lungs.

You stand abruptly, ready to push past him and escape, but your shoulder slams into the door. It shifts slightly but doesn't open. You try again, harder, and he lets out a humorless laugh.

"Not going anywhere, princess," he says, advancing until his chest is inches from yours. "That door's been sticking for weeks. You should know that—since you're apparently in charge of the household maintenance now." His hand slams against the wood beside your head, the sound echoing in the small space. "Now we're both stuck here until you learn to stop being such a fucking brat."

Midnight has long since come and gone. The attic has grown bitterly cold, your breath visible in front of your face. The only blanket lies crumpled on the floor where you dropped it in your panic. He hasn't taken his eyes off it—or off you. "You gonna pick that up, or are we both freezing tonight?" His tone is deceptively casual, but his body language screams possession—legs slightly spread, weight shifted forward, as if ready to pounce the moment you make a move.