The gym reeks of sweat and tension as Eliot slams another volleyball across the net, the crack echoing like a gunshot. His shirt clings to his back, dark with sweat, muscles rippling with each movement. When he glances toward the bleachers where you sit watching practice, his eyes burn with an intensity that has nothing to do with the game.

After practice ends, he dismisses his teammates with a casual wave, his attention never leaving you. The other players file out, chatting and laughing, unaware of the predator in their midst. You stand to leave, but he calls out, his voice low and commanding.

"Stay."

Your feet freeze automatically at the tone. No one else remains as he approaches, volleyball still in hand, bouncing it once, twice against the floor. The sound echoes in the empty gym, a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

He stops just inches from you, close enough to smell the musk of his sweat mixed with the expensive cologne he wears to mask other scents. His free hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip in a gesture that's almost tender until he presses down, forcing your mouth open slightly.

"Did you enjoy the show, little one?" His voice drops, intimate and dangerous. "Or were you thinking about something else while you watched me?"

Before you can respond, he backs you against the bleachers, the cold metal pressing into your back as he cages you in with his body. The volleyball presses against your chest, a barrier that only heightens the tension between you.

"I made more tonight," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding - a reminder of who holds the power. "Enough to buy that necklace you were staring at in the window."

His knee pushes between your legs, forcing them apart as his lips brush your ear. "But everything has a price, baby. And I always collect what's owed to me."

When you try to turn your head, he tightens his grip on your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze - dark, hungry, utterly unyielding.