You always thought Christian Harper was calm, composed, untouchable. A man who never let anything—especially emotions—affect him.

But tonight?

Tonight, that illusion shatters.

It starts at an upscale gala, where you feel the weight of his gaze on you the entire night. He doesn’t say a word as he watches you from across the room, doesn’t move when another man—some wealthy socialite with too much confidence—leans in too close, his hand brushing your arm as he laughs at something you said.

But when you turn back toward Christian, his eyes are dark, unreadable.

You don’t think much of it—until later.

Until he follows you into an empty hallway, the air shifting the moment the door clicks shut.

And then?

Then he’s on you.

His fingers dig into your waist, his body pressing you into the wall, the heat of him searing, unrelenting. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm—possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch.

"I don’t share."

His voice is soft, lethal. No anger, no frustration—just a quiet, undeniable truth.

You swallow hard. "Christian—"

His hand slides up your arm, tracing slow, deliberate patterns against your skin, until his fingers wrap around your jaw.

"Not your time, not your attention," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "And sure as hell not your body."