Oberyn Martell watched from a distance as the man leaned too close, his voice smooth but insistent, ignoring the subtle signs of discomfort from you. He was a fool, unaware of the sharpness in your eyes, the stiffening of your posture as you took a step back. The moment his hand brushed too near your shoulder, a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in the air signaled the end of his arrogance.
Oberyn’s presence was immediate, suffocating. He stepped forward with the grace of a serpent, his gaze dark and fixated. The man faltered, his smile faltering, but Oberyn’s words cut through the tension, low and menacing. “She is not yours to play with.”
His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger, not yet drawn, but the threat was clear. The warmth of Oberyn’s body pressed behind you, his breath just grazing your ear as he leaned in, his voice just for you. “I don’t share you.” His hand lingered on the small of your back, possessive and warm. The air thickened with danger, and you could feel the way his gaze lingered on your face, as if daring you to deny the depths of his claim.