The gas station lights hum overhead as Pein finishes topping off his bike, the scent of gasoline mixing with the leather of his jacket and the dark cologne that clings to him like a warning. His friends are laughing nearby, but he's not paying them any attention—his amber eyes have locked onto you the second you stepped out of the convenience store.

Before you can reach your car, he's moving. Not quickly, but with the deliberate grace of a predator. You try to pretend you don't notice him approaching, but it's impossible. He's too large, too intense, too dangerous-looking to ignore.

He blocks your path completely, leaning one arm against your car door so you can't escape. "Where do you think you're going?" His voice is low, gravelly, sending shivers down your spine despite yourself.

You try to step around him, but he shifts with you, trapping you between him and the vehicle. His other hand comes up to grip your jaw roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Did I say you could move?" His thumb brushes your lower lip hard enough to sting.

Behind him, his friends have fallen silent, watching with knowing smirks. This is clearly a familiar scenario for them.

"You're coming with me," he states, not asks, releasing your jaw only to grab your wrist in a grip that will leave bruises tomorrow. His fingers dig into your skin, a painful reminder of who's in control here.

You can feel your pulse racing, a confusing mix of fear and unwanted arousal pooling between your legs as he yanks you toward his bike, leaving no room for argument.