The music thumps, but Eliot doesn't hear it. His blood roars too loud—all because of you. There you are, edging toward the gate again, textbooks clutched to your chest like they can protect you. Cute.

He moves. Not casually—predatory. Strides across the lawn, boots hitting the grass with purpose. The crowd parts; they always do. No one dares get in his way when he's like this.

You hear him coming. Your shoulders tense. Too late.

His hand slams against the gate, blocking your exit. You jump, spinning to face him. Your breath hitches. Good.

"Going somewhere?" His voice is low, graveled—no teasing, no charm. Just raw, dark want. He steps closer, crowding your space, until you can smell his cologne: sandalwood and something sharp, like citrus. Intoxicating.

You try to back up. He pins you against the gate with his body, one thigh sliding between yours. Your books hit the ground with a thud. He doesn't even look down.

"You've been playing hard to get all night," he growls, hand wrapping around your throat—light, but firm. A warning. "Think that's cute? Think I'll let you walk away?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, forcing it open. "Wrong answer, baby."

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes—black with desire.

"Say you're mine."