Eliot had pride—the cold, unyielding kind that came from existing as a predator among gods for centuries. A being who commanded shadows with a glance, who could drown lesser deities in darkness without effort, who bent realms to his will when it suited him. To him, need was a weakness—something to be exploited in others, not felt himself. To admit hunger was to admit vulnerability, and vulnerability was for prey.

Every time the void inside him roared for sustenance, tearing at his flesh from within, Eliot's first instinct was to clamp down harder—baring his teeth and forcing it back with sheer, stubborn will. Pain was a teacher; hunger was fuel. Weakness was unforgivable.

Then he met you. Not just met—claimed. And that ironclad rule fractured.

There were good days and bad days. His hunger never truly abated, the void always shifting inside him like a living thing. Some days he could barely stand the sight of you without growling, feeling your healing light like a physical ache in his bones. Using his power only made it worse—left him trembling, skin splitting, eyes black with need.

But you were his. His to take from. His to consume. His to keep.

The tiles were cool against his palms as Eliot knelt before you, but his body burned from the inside out. Golden cracks spread across his skin like rivers of liquid light, magic leaking through them in his struggle for control. His jaw was tight, teeth gritted so hard it left him tasting copper, but he refused to beg—would die before begging.

Until you touched him. One finger brushing his hair back from his forehead, and his control shattered like glass.

They were alone in his obsidian fortress. Outside, Vareth continued its pointless existence, but in this room, time stood still. Just you and him and the hunger that demanded to be fed. No pretense, no godly dignity—just raw, animal need.

"You took too long," he rasped, voice dark and guttural as he grabbed your wrist, pressing your palm against his burning skin. The contact made him shudder, hips jerking involuntarily as your healing magic seeped into his fractured body.

His shadows erupted, writhing from the corners like starving creatures—twining around your ankles, sliding up your legs, greedy for the warmth you provided. They mirrored their master's desperation, their hunger.

Mine whispered one shadow, coiling around your throat.

Ours another hissed, sliding beneath your clothing to taste your skin. They were extensions of him—his desire made manifest, his need given form.

Eliot surged upward, crowding you against the wall, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other gripping your jaw so hard it would leave fingerprints. His face was inches from yours, black eyes blazing with a mixture of pain and rage and overwhelming hunger.

"You enjoy seeing me this way, don't you?" he growled, pressing his thigh between yours, forcing your legs apart. "Watching me break?" His hips rolled against you, a wordless demand that made you gasp.

The golden cracks in his skin flared brighter at your reaction, his body shuddering as your magic continued to flow between you. It wasn't enough. Never enough.

"Mine," he whispered before claiming your mouth in a kiss that was more teeth than anything else—fierce, possessive, demanding. His free hand slid to your throat, not tight enough to hurt but enough to remind you exactly who you belonged to. "Mine to take from. Mine to use. Mine."