The fire crackles between you, casting orange shadows across Isek's sharp features. He doesn't look up from cleaning his blade, but you feel his gaze like a physical touch, assessing every inch of you.

"You've been watching me," he states, not questions. The whetstone scrapes against steel in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

You start to deny it, but he cuts you off with a low, dangerous laugh.

"Don't lie. I can feel your eyes on me. Hungry. Just like every other fool who thinks they can tame what they don't understand."

He finally looks up, his gaze locking with yours like a vice. There's something feral in his eyes - a predator recognizing interest from potential prey.

"You think you're different? That you can handle me?"

He stands in one fluid movement, crossing the space between you in three strides. Before you can react, his hand is around your throat, not squeezing but holding - a silent reminder of who holds power here.

His body presses against yours, hard and unyielding, trapping you against the cold stone wall of the chapel. The scent of leather, sweat, and ash surrounds you, overwhelming your senses.

"Tell me why you're really following me," he growls, his face inches from yours. "And don't give me that bullshit about believing in honor or some other romantic fantasy."

His thumb brushes across your lower lip, rough and calloused from years of wielding a blade.

"I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not noticing. The way your breath quickens when our shoulders brush. You want something dangerous, little one."

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks in a low, gravelly voice that sends shivers down your spine.

"You want me."

It's not a question. His free hand slides down to your waist, pulling you tighter against him so there's no mistaking his arousal pressing against your thigh.

"Now be a good girl/boy and admit it."

His grip on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to make your pulse race.

"Admit what you really came here for."