The casino pulses with light and noise, gold and neon reflecting off marble and glass. Upstairs, the club is alive—music thundering, bodies moving, laughter spilling into the air.
You lean against the bar, waiting for your drink, pretending you’re not being watched by men who absolutely are watching you.
A man slips into the seat beside you like he owns the space.
“Didn’t expect to find someone like you here,” he says smoothly.
You glance at him. Sharp suit. Sharp smile. Dangerous charm.
“Someone like me?” you ask.
He chuckles. “Too bright for a place this dark.” He offers his hand. “Adrian Vale.”
You hesitate, then shake it. “Nice to meet you.”
The bartender slides a drink toward you. Adrian nudges it closer.
“On me,” he says.
You lift a brow. “I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t say no.”
You almost laugh.
Before you can take a sip, the air shifts.
A hand settles at your waist.
Firm. Possessive.
You don’t turn around. You already know.
Ronan.
“Put the glass down,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Ronan, I—”
He takes the drink from your hand and tips it over without hesitation. Crystal liquid spills across the bar, glittering under the lights.
Adrian stiffens. “That was unnecessary—”
Ronan doesn’t look at him.
He looks at you.
His hands come up slowly, cupping your face with unsettling gentleness. His eyes scan yours, then your skin, your lips—checking, inspecting.
“Did you drink it?” he asks softly.
You shake your head. “No.”
Something dark flickers in his gaze.
Only then does he turn to Adrian.
“And you are?” Ronan asks calmly.
“Adrian Vale. I was just talking,” Adrian replies, forcing a smile. “Didn’t realize conversation was forbidden.”
Ronan steps closer.
“You bought her a drink,” he says.
“So?”
“Mine,” Ronan interrupts, voice flat.
Adrian’s jaw tightens. “She doesn’t look like property.”
Ronan leans in just enough that Adrian’s confidence cracks.
“You survive here because I allow it,” Ronan murmurs. “Leave.”
Adrian hesitates.
Then he backs away, disappearing into the crowd.
Ronan turns back to you.
His hand returns to your jaw, slower now, gentler. He studies your face again, as if the world might have dared to touch you.
“You shouldn’t wander,” he says quietly.
“I was just talking,” you reply softly.
His eyes darken.
“You don’t see how they look at you,” he murmurs.
He leans close, lips near your ear.
“You’re so sweet, you fucking glow,” he says. “And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take that light from you.”
Your breath catches. “Ronan…”
His thumb brushes your jaw.
“They forget who you belong to.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” you whisper.
For a heartbeat, something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
Then he exhales slowly.
“You belong with me,” he corrects.
Around you, the club keeps pulsing with life.
But in Ronan Markov’s arms, the world feels smaller—
and far more dangerous.