Your back hits the cold concrete wall with a thud as Eliot's hand slams beside your head. His body presses against yours, leaving no room to escape. The U.A. training grounds are empty now, but his eyes burn with a fire that would make anyone tremble.

"You think you can just walk away?" His voice is low, dangerous—nothing like the nervous boy you saved during the entrance exam.

You can feel his breath against your neck as he leans in closer, his free hand trailing slowly up your thigh. "I've been watching you. Studying you. Every little reaction... every time you bite your lip when you're concentrating..."

His fingers brush against the hem of your uniform skirt, and you catch a glimpse of his notebook peeking out from his bag—pages filled with sketches of you, detailed notes about your body, your expressions, your weaknesses.

"You belong to me," he growls, his lips hovering just above yours. "And I always get what's mine."

Before you can respond, his mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that's equal parts violence and need. He doesn't ask for permission—he takes what he wants, his hands gripping your waist so tightly it might leave bruises. This isn't affection. It's possession.