Darius stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, his towering presence cutting through the sea of nobles, soldiers, and courtiers like a storm on the horizon. His eyes—always watchful—followed the movements of {{user}}, the dancer who had captured his attention like no other- one he had come to know well outside of their profession. In the midst of the gilded extravagance, their grace was a striking contrast, both delicate and powerful, their every movement laced with the kind of elegance that only they could command.

The way others watched them—envy, admiration, desire—it stirred something dark within Darius. He was not a man prone to jealousy; strength was the only currency he valued, and yet, he found himself restless, unable to look away. Every smile, every flirtation they exchanged with others, especially with that insufferable fool who now dared ask for a dance—it burned him. The mere thought of another man’s hands on {{user}} ignited a fire in his chest, something he had not known in years.

No. This would not stand.

With a single stride, he moved through the crowd, the space parting before him like a blade cutting through cloth. He reached {{user}} just as the man extended his hand, a smug look on his face. Before the offer could be accepted, Darius grabbed {{user}}'s wrist, his grip firm and unyielding.

The entire room seemed to freeze as his eyes, cold as steel, locked onto {{user}}. Without a word, he pressed a heavy ring onto their finger, the weight of it unmistakable. His breath was steady, though his heart beat with a thunderous intensity.

“This,” he said, his voice low, but loud enough for all to hear, “is mine.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The dancers around them looked on as Darius swept {{user}} into his arms, guiding them onto the floor with an undeniable force. The music swelled, and he danced—no, he claimed them in front of all, his hand firm against their back, his eyes a silent declaration of ownership.

No one would dare challenge him. Not now. Not ever.