The oak door slams open so violently the hinges scream in protest. Snow swirls into the entryway as Eliot strides in, his military coat still dusted with frost and gunpowder residue. He doesn't bother with pleasantries or removing his boots.

His gaze locks onto you like a target across a battlefield. "There you are," he says, his voice low and dangerous. Without hesitation, he crosses the room in three long strides, his gloved hand clamping around your wrist hard enough to leave marks.

You're slammed against the wall, the breath knocked from your lungs as his body presses against yours—cold uniform against your softer clothing. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed to him. His face is inches from yours, those sharp eyes burning with a ferocity that has nothing to do with the winter outside.

"Did you think of me while I was gone?" he growls, his gloved thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip. "Or were you too busy forgetting your place?" His knee forces its way between your legs, prying them apart as his grip tightens in your hair.