The bass thudded low and steady, like a heartbeat dragged through molasses. Smoke curled from the ashtrays left on tables that gleamed under the lazy spin of a chandelier. The room was crowded with people who looked too good for their own safety — sequins, champagne, silk smiles. And then there was you.

Rhapsody watched from the bar — one elbow leaning against the mahogany, a glass of scotch in his hand, untouched. His shirt sleeves were rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms, that dark tattoo peeking up his wrist like a whisper of a past life. His gaze — those deep, hunter-green eyes — followed you from across the room.

You laughed, bright and melodic, the sound cutting through the haze. A group of men stood around you like moths to a flame, their smiles too eager, their hands hovering too close. And it wasn’t the fact that you were flirting that got under his skin — it was that you were good at it. Too good.

He told himself you were just doing your job. Just baiting a lead. Just charming your way to a name or a secret or a number. But when your fingers brushed one man’s sleeve, Rhapsody’s jaw tightened. He exhaled through his nose, a quiet, controlled sound — a habit from years of staying calm under pressure. Then he downed the scotch like a man swallowing his better judgment.

His steps toward you were measured, heavy with authority and something darker he refused to name. The men noticed him before you did — that tall, broad figure in all black, his presence cutting through the room like a knife in velvet.

“Gentlemen,” he said with that low voice — the kind that vibrated in the ribs, even when he wasn’t angry. His smile was polite, predatory in its perfection. “Mind if I steal her away?”

A hand slipped around your waist, firm, claiming, but only for the act. Only because it made the story believable. At least that’s what he told himself.

“Easy,” he murmured low enough for only you to hear, his breath brushing your ear. “You’re supposed to be charming them, not giving me a heart attack from across the damn room.”

Then, as the men watched, he smiled again — all suave composure, though his grip betrayed a quiet storm.