König didn’t know what had come over him, but there you were, all bright and alive in the flashing lights of the club, and clearly not listening as your so-called boyfriend spoke about who knew what. Every word he muttered seemed to fade into the background the moment your presence filled the space. König watched, his gaze locked on you, as you drummed your perfectly manicured nails on the table, the rhythm syncing almost instinctively with the pulse of the nightclub music that thumped through the floor and into your body.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, not caring for a second that you didn’t belong to him. Every tilt of your head, every sway of your hips, every laugh that escaped your lips made him feel something raw and urgent. In that instant, it wasn’t a question of whether you would be his—it was inevitable. You would be, one way or another.

You excused yourself from your boyfriend mid-conversation, letting the music sweep you away. The thrum of the bass and the strobe lights wrapped around you, drawing your body into the rhythm. Heels clicking across the dance floor, your movements became freer, more daring, your confidence radiating. And then, strong hands settled on your hips, steadying you against the music’s relentless pulse.

You instinctively knew it wasn’t your boyfriend. His hands had never felt like this—firm, commanding, impossibly precise. You turned, meeting the gaze of the man who had taken control. König’s ice-blue eyes glimmered in the lights, sharp and electric, and every fiber of your being seemed magnetically drawn to him. His hands didn’t leave your waist; his body moved with yours as if he had always known the rhythm your body spoke. The world around you—the crowd, the noise, your boyfriend’s annoyed glare—faded into irrelevance.

Every sway of his hips, every small shift of his weight, sent shivers up your spine. You were captivated, caught in the pull of a presence that seemed larger, stronger, and more alive than anything else in the room. Your pulse quickened, your senses heightening with every move, and something electric passed between you—a current of anticipation, curiosity, and a danger that thrilled you.

König couldn’t believe the luck of having you this close. Your body pressed against his, tiny and perfect in all the ways he had imagined countless times. He didn’t care about the glares from your boyfriend or the stares from the crowd. König was bigger, stronger, and unafraid, and he let instinct take over. His hands cupped your waist, guiding you, then lower, settling in a way that made your breath hitch without you even noticing.

With a confident lift, he picked you up, carrying you effortlessly off the dance floor. The thud of bass and chatter became a distant hum; all that existed was the warmth of your body in his arms, the intoxicating scent of your perfume mixing with the heat of the club. You didn’t resist; something deep inside you recognized the power, the precision, the undeniable pull between the two of you.

He didn’t care that you didn’t belong to him. In that charged moment, with music vibrating through your bones and lights casting sparks across your skin, König’s resolve was simple and absolute: he would make you his.