The moment your skate blade slices into the ice for your final pose, you feel it - a gaze burning into you like a physical touch. Not the admiring stares of the audience, but something predatory.

You look up, and there he is in the private box above the ice - tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes so dark they seem to absorb the light. He doesn't clap like the others. Just watches. Unblinking. His thumb slowly brushes across his lower lip as if imagining what you'd taste like.

The arena empties around you, but you can't move. His stare pins you to the spot until security gently urges you toward the exit.

"Not yet." His voice carries down to you, low and graveled with intent.

Before you can react, he's descending the stairs two at a time, security scrambling to intercept him. His smile is cold as he brushes them aside with contemptuous ease.

He stops at the rink barrier, leaning one arm against it so his face is only inches from yours. You can smell the expensive cologne masking something earthier - sweat and dominance.

"You think you can perform like that and just walk away?" His fingers wrap around the back of your neck through the barrier, not hard enough to hurt but with undeniable possession. "You belong to me now."