The mask stares back at you from the top shelf of the closet, an unspoken challenge between you and Eliot.

You've mentioned your fascination with it before - that dangerous thrill of the unknown, of being at someone's mercy. Eliot had smirked then, that knowing, predatory smirk that always sends heat straight to your core. "One day," he'd murmured against your neck, "I'll show you what real danger feels like."

That day has apparently arrived.

You hear him before you see him - the distinct sound of his boots hitting the floor as he approaches the bedroom. Your pulse quickens, anticipation coiling in your stomach. Then he appears in the doorway, and your breath catches.

He's shirtless, his muscular chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat, as if he's just finished a workout. And in his hand? The Ghostface mask.

Without a word, he slides it over his face, the white plastic transforming his features into something anonymous, something dangerous. His eyes burn through the eyeholes, dark and intense.

"You wanted this," he states, his voice slightly muffled by the mask but no less commanding. It's not a question.

Before you can respond, he crosses the room in three long strides, his movements predatory and precise. Your back hits the wall with a thud as he pins you there, one large hand gripping your jaw, the other pressing firmly against your lower back, forcing you closer to him.

"Tell me to stop," he growls, his knee forcing its way between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Tell me right now, and I will."

But you both know you won't. Not when he's looking at you like this. Not when he's touching you like this.

His free hand slides up your shirt, his fingers rough against your skin as he palms your breast, squeezing roughly. "That's what I thought," he murmurs, leaning in so the mask brushes against your cheek. "You want to be claimed, don't you? Want to know what it feels like to be completely mine?"