Eliot leaned against his truck, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you unload boxes from your vehicle. His Stetson cast shadows over his eyes, but you could feel his gaze burning into you like a physical touch. The air crackled with tension, thick with unspoken intent that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

The sound of his boots crunching on gravel echoed across the empty space between your properties as he finally approached. There was no hesitation in his stride—no nervous shuffling like some schoolboy. This was a man on a mission, his purpose clear in every movement.

He stopped just inches from you, close enough that you could smell the whiskey on his breath mixed with the earthy scent of leather and sweat. His hand shot out, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"You're mine now," he growled, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Understand? This land, this house, everything around here belongs to me—and that includes you." His thumb brushed roughly across your lower lip as his eyes raked over your body, making no attempt to hide his hunger.

The setting sun painted the sky in violent hues of red and purple as he released your chin only to wrap his hand around your throat, his grip firm but not yet painful. "I don't share what's mine," he warned, his face inches from yours. "And make no mistake—you are mine."