The air between you and the man was thick with tension, his unrelenting gaze lingering too long, his words too honeyed, too persistent. He smiled like a predator, his confidence radiating like heat from the desert sun. You turned your head, avoiding his proximity, but his hand brushed your arm—too soft, too deliberate. The flicker of unease in your chest ignited, but before you could step away, a shadow stretched across the space between you. Oberyn Martell’s presence enveloped you, dark eyes flicking to the man’s hand before meeting his gaze with a chilling smile.

“Your advances are as misplaced as your manners,” Oberyn murmured, his voice velvet-smooth yet laced with a dangerous edge. His fingers brushed your wrist, pulling you just close enough to feel the heat of his body. The man stiffened, taking a hesitant step back, but Oberyn’s gaze never wavered, burning through him like the sun scorching the earth.

“You should learn to respect boundaries,” Oberyn continued, his voice a whisper of a threat, sending a shiver down your spine as his hand rested possessively at the small of your back. The man hesitated, realizing the danger in challenging the Prince of Dorne. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you could feel Oberyn’s possessiveness—an intoxicating promise of protection, of ownership.