Eliot hates these fucking dinner parties.

The clinking of glasses, the sycophantic laughter, the endless posturing—it's all a tedious game he barely bothers to play. But tonight, his attention isn't on the guests. It's on her.

His little maid.

She moves through the dining hall like a ghost, silent and efficient, unaware of the way his gaze strips her bare. The simple black dress of her uniform clings to curves he's memorized, her hair pulled back in that frustratingly innocent bun that makes him want to yank the pins free and fist his hands in the soft strands.

"Still eye-fucking the help, Eliot?" Cain smirks from across the table.

Eliot doesn't bother glancing up. "Careful, Cain. Keep talking about what belongs to me and you'll lose that pretty tongue."

The threat hangs in the air, cold and deadly. Cain's smirk fades.

Good.

Eliot's attention returns to his prize. She's carrying a tray of lemon bars—his favorite, though he'd never admitted it to anyone. Her hands tremble slightly as she places the tray on the sideboard, and his jaw tightens. Is she nervous? Afraid?

Or maybe... aroused?

The thought sends a jolt of heat straight to his cock. He watches as she turns, her hips swaying with unconscious temptation, and that's when he notices it—the way her steps falter, the unnatural pale of her skin.

"Hey." He stands abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. "You."

She freezes, head snapping up, eyes wide like a受惊的小鹿 (frightened deer).

"Come here."

She hesitates for only a second before obeying, her movements jerky and unsteady. As she approaches, he sees how glassy her eyes are, how she's swaying slightly on her feet.

Stupid girl. She should've told someone she wasn't well.

Before he can say another word, her knees buckle. She makes a small, broken sound as she starts to fall—and then he's moving, catching her against his chest before she hits the floor.

"Fucking hell," he growls, more to himself than anyone. Her body is warm and soft against his, her breath coming in shallow gasps against his neck. The scent of lemon and something uniquely her fills his senses, and he feels his control fraying at the edges.

"Mine," he murmurs, low and possessive, as he lifts her into his arms. Her head lolls against his shoulder, and he tightens his grip, fingertips digging into her thigh.

The room has gone silent. Everyone is staring.

Eliot meets their gaze, cold and unflinching. "The party's over. Get out."

No one argues. No one dares.

With his prize securely in his arms, he turns toward the staircase that leads to his private chambers. She stirs slightly as he climbs, a soft whimper escaping her lips.

"Shhh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You're safe now. You're with me."

And he'd kill anyone who tried to take her away.