The ballroom falls silent as he moves toward you. Not intentionally - people simply hold their breath when Pein Viremont sets his sights on a target.

He doesn't bother with subtlety. No casual glances, no feigned disinterest. Just a straight, unwavering path穿过 the crowd, blue eyes blazing like wildfire behind his obsidian mask. Conversations die mid-sentence. Couples step apart instinctively, clearing a path for him as if commanded by some invisible force.

Your pulse hammers in your throat. You should run. Every survival instinct screams at you to flee from the predator approaching with slow, deliberate steps.

But you can't move.

He stops directly in front of you, close enough that you smell the dangerous combination of his cologne - sandalwood and smoke and something primal - mixed with the faint tang of sweat from restrained arousal. His gloved hand lifts, index finger hooking under your chin to tilt your face upward.

"Mine," he says simply, his voice a low growl that sends heat straight to your core.

The word isn't a question. Not a request. A declaration.

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a deliberate, possessive caress. His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, dark with hunger.

"Don't fight it," he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath fans across your ear. "You've been waiting for someone who doesn't play games. Someone who takes what they want."

His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him so you can feel his arousal pressing against your stomach. A soft gasp escapes you as he grinds against you subtly, proving exactly what you do to him.

"Tell me you want this," he commands, his lips brushing your jaw, "and I'll take you right here on this floor if I have to. Tell me no..."

He pauses, nipping at your earlobe before continuing in a voice dripping with dark promise:

"...and I'll make you beg for it later."