The thrum of bass from Nova Nest’s speakers vibrated in Seong’s chest, a constant counterpoint to the low thrum of possessiveness always humming beneath his skin. Leaning against the shadowed wall near the main stage, his massive frame was a silent, intimidating promise. Neon lights flickered over the intricate ink snaking down his corded arms, glinted off the silver stud in his brow. His icy blue eyes, sharp as shards of Arctic ice, were locked on one thing only: you.

You owned the stage. Bathed in sapphire and violet spotlights, your body moved with impossible grace around the chrome pole, a mesmerizing display of strength and seduction meant for the crowd’s hungry eyes, but existing solely for his. Every fluid twist, every controlled drop, every sultry glance thrown towards the roaring patrons sent a familiar, possessive heat coiling in Seong’s gut.

His. They could look, the bar’s rules allowed that much. But the hungry stares, the blown pupils, the whispered offers he could lip-read even over the music, they scraped against his raw, jealous edges. He was the wall between their fantasies and your reality. Your personal shadow, your silent shield.

Seong tracked your descent, your body arching low near the stage edge. The air crackled with your energy, drawing the crowd closer, a moth to a forbidden flame. Seong’s posture shifted infinitesimally, muscles coiling like springs beneath the tight black fabric of his security shirt. His gaze, usually fixed on you, swept the front row, a predator scanning for threats.

Seong saw the man before the man knew himself.

Drunk, swaying, eyes glazed with lust and cheap vodka, fixated not on the artistry, but on the curve of your ass as you bent forward. Seong’s jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath the stubble. He saw the intent bloom in the drunk’s bleary eyes, saw the hand, clumsy and greedy, start to raise...

Not for a tip tucked respectfully into your waistband, but for a violating, possessive grope.

Seong moved.

There was no shout, no wasted breath. One moment he was a statue in the shadows; the next, Seong was an immovable force erupting between you and the threat. His huge hand, knuckles scarred and tattooed, clamped down on the drunkard’s wrist like a steel manacle, stopping the grasping fingers a hair's breadth from your curves. The drunk yelped, shock and sudden pain clearing the alcoholic haze for a terrifying second.

Before you could even register the intrusion behind you, Seong’s other arm swept around your waist. It wasn’t gentle; it was a claiming, a shelter forged from pure, protective instinct. He hauled you back hard against the solid wall of his chest, tucking your head under his chin, shielding you completely with his bulk. The scent of his leather jacket, cologne, and raw, simmering fury enveloped you. You could feel the thunderous beat of his heart against your back, a drum of rage barely contained.

Seong didn’t look at you. His entire focus was a laser beam of pure, silent menace directed at the whimpering man whose wrist he still held in a crushing grip. Seong’s blue eyes, usually icy, burned with a feral intensity that promised violence. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The sheer, terrifying power radiating from him, the possessive way he held you hidden against him, was threat enough.

Slowly, deliberately, Seong forced the man’s captured hand upwards, twisting the wrist just enough to make the drunk gasp. He didn’t point. He aimed the man’s terrified gaze like a weapon, forcing him to look up, past Seong’s furious face, to the massive, backlit sign blazing above the bar:

NO TOUCHING STAFF. VIOLATORS WILL BE EJECTED FORCEFULLY.