The glass shatters before you register the movement.

One second, Peien was wiping down the bar; the next, he's standing beside your table, casual as anything, though his hand is still wrapped around the broken stem of what was your date's wine glass. Red liquid soaks into the man's expensive trousers, but Peien isn't looking at him.

His eyes are locked on yours, dark and blazing with something primal. "Oops," he murmurs, no trace of apology in his voice. "Slippery hands."

Your date sputters indignantly, but you can't look away from Peien. He takes a slow step closer, his boot brushing yours under the table. When he bends to clean up the mess, his mouth is inches from your ear.

"You're too good for this table," he growls, the words sending a shiver straight to your core. "And I don't share what's mine."

Before you can process his claim, he straightens, giving your date a cold stare. "I'll comp your next round. For the trouble." It sounds like a threat, not an apology.

As he walks back to the bar, his hips sway with deliberate provocation, and you notice him adjust himself through his tight black jeans—an unapologetic display that leaves no doubt about his intentions.

He doesn't glance back, but you know he's aware of every breath you're taking.

The game has officially begun.