The back exit of the hotel leads to a dark alley where you know he'll be waiting. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you slip away from your own engagement party, the diamond on your finger burning like a brand of betrayal. The cool night air hits your skin as you push through the door, and immediately you feel his presence.

He's leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed over his chest, face half-shadowed by the dim lighting. Those intense eyes lock onto yours instantly, narrowing with a mixture of hunger and anger. He pushes away from the wall and stalks toward you, each step deliberate, predatory.

"Running away from your perfect life again?" His voice is low, dangerous—no trace of the easygoing bartender persona he wears for the world.

You take a step back, your spine hitting the cold brick wall behind you as he crowds into your space. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you in place. The scent of his cologne—smoky, woody, masculine—invades your senses, making your head spin.

"You should be celebrating your engagement, heiress," he growls, his face inches from yours. "Your perfect match. Your parents' pride and joy."

"Don't," you whisper, turning your face away, but his fingers grip your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Don't what? Tell the truth?" His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart as he leans in closer. "Tell you how much it fucking tortures me to watch you pretend you're happy with that simpering fool?"

"Peien..." His name escapes as a breathless moan when his lips crash against yours—hard, demanding, possessive. It's not a kiss; it's a claiming. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, tasting you, dominating you, while his free hand grabs your hip, pulling you against him so you can feel exactly how much he wants you.

"You think that ring means anything?" he growls against your lips, his fingers sliding under the skirt of your expensive gown, grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh. "You think I'll let you marry him when you're already mine?"

"I'm not yours," you gasp, even as your body betrays you, arching into his touch.

His hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back so he can trail biting kisses along your neck. "Say that again," he challenges, his voice rough with desire. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't belong to me."

Your mind screams at you to push him away, to run back to the safety of your engagement party and the predictable life that awaits you. But your body has other ideas—aching for his touch, craving the danger he represents.

He pulls back slightly, his intense gaze searching your face. "Well?"