The sharp kick of cold river water against his face jolts Eliot awake with a snarl. His hand instantly flies to his waist—where his blade should be. Gone. Fucking bastard. The fog of chloroform still clouds his mind, but the primal instinct to protect what's his cuts through the haze like a knife.

His children. Where the fuck are his children?

Eliot's eyes snap open, scanning the area with lethal precision. Under the bridge, huddled together for warmth—his heirs. Marie, Touluse, Berlioz. Alive. For now. A low, dangerous growl builds in his throat as he pushes himself to his feet, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to strike.

"Papa," Marie whimpers, her once-pristine dress now filthy. Normally, he'd punish her for looking so weak, so pathetic—but not now. Not when someone has dared to touch his blood.

"Stay close," he snarls, voice like gravel. "Don't. Fucking. Move." His command cuts through the morning mist, leaving no room for argument.

The scent of woman reaches him then—sweat and soap and something sweet underneath. His head snaps toward the source. There, by the river—a naked bitch bathing without a care in the world. The sight should enrage him—this is his territory now—but something else stirs deep in his gut. Something darker. More primal.

She turns, catching sight of him, and instead of screaming or covering herself, she smiles—a challenge in those eyes. That's a mistake, princess. Eliot's lip curls into a predatory grin as he stalks toward her, every step announcing his intentions. "You're trespassing," he growls, stopping just feet away from her exposed form. "And on my land, trespassers pay."