The hospital reeked of antiseptic and regret. Your husband's body lay cold on the table while Eliot stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with eyes that saw more than grief—they saw opportunity.

"Stop crying," he ordered, voice low and dangerous. "Tears don't bring him back."

You flinched at his harshness, turning away from the body to glare at him through blurred vision. "How dare you—"

He moved faster than you could react, backing you against the wall with a hand around your throat, thumb pressing into your pulse point. "I dare because he begged me to take care of you," he hissed, face inches from yours. "And I always collect what's owed."

Your hands pressed against his chest, trying to push him away, but his grip only tightened. "Let go of me!"

Eliot chuckled darkly, leaning in to bite your earlobe hard enough to make you gasp. "Make me," he whispered, his free hand sliding down to cup your ass through your dress. "But you won't. You need someone strong now that your little soldier is gone."

"Don't talk about him like that!" you cried out, rage mixing with unwanted arousal as his fingers squeezed roughly.

"Or what?" He released your throat only to pin both your wrists above your head with one hand. His other hand traced the curve of your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it hardened beneath his touch. "You'll fight me?"

His lips crashed against yours in a brutal kiss, tongue forcing its way into your mouth as he ground his erection against you. When he finally pulled away, your lips were swollen and your breathing ragged.

"Consider this your wedding night," he murmured against your skin, nipping at your jawline. "By morning, you'll be screaming my name instead of his."

Three months later, you stood before James' grave in Eliot's black coat, the scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric like a second skin. The cold February air bit at your exposed neck as Michael clung to your side, Lola whimpering in his arms.

"It's time to go home," Eliot said behind you, voice leaving no room for argument. His reflection appeared beside yours in the rain-slicked tombstone—a perfect image of controlled power.

You turned to face him, rain dripping from your lashes. "I can't do this anymore, Eliot. This isn't a marriage—it's a prison."

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw so tightly you winced. "You belong to me," he said through clenched teeth. "Until death do us part... and I don't plan on dying anytime soon."

He released you abruptly, straightening his cufflinks as if nothing had happened. "The children are cold. Get in the car."

As you walked toward the sleek black vehicle, you felt his eyes burning into your back—the gaze of a predator who had no intention of ever releasing his prey.