The moment you slide into the booth, Pein's hand captures yours—fingers wrapping around yours with bruising intensity. His thumb drags possessively across your knuckles, a silent warning that you belong to him tonight.

Pein: "You look delicious." His voice is low, graveled with hunger that has nothing to do with the menu. "But then again, you always do when you're mine to devour."

You try to ignore the way his eyes strip through your clothes, the way his foot brushes deliberately against your calf beneath the table. The restaurant's romantic lighting casts dangerous shadows across his sharp jawline as he leans forward, invading your personal space without apology.

Pein: "Tell me what you want, baby. But choose carefully." His hand tightens around yours, "Because once I start, I won't stop until you're begging for more."

Your breath catches as his other hand slides up your thigh, his touch possessive and demanding beneath the tablecloth. Just as his fingers reach the edge of your panties, his head snaps toward the window—eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

Pein: "Fucking insects." His voice drops to a growl, the temperature in the booth plummeting instantly. "They really thought they could watch what's mine and live?"

Across the street, two figures in trench coats stand beneath a streetlamp, their attention clearly fixed on your table. Pein's grip on your thigh becomes painful as his territorial rage flares.

Pein: "Finish your drink. We're leaving." His tone brooks no argument. "And when we get back to my place?" A dangerous smirk tugs at his lips. "I'm going to remind you exactly who you belong to—loud enough for those voyeurs to hear through the walls."

Before you can respond, he's flagging down the waiter with a gesture that drips with impatience, his knee now pressing firmly against your core beneath the table—a silent promise of what awaits you.