The gallery opening feels like a trap. Eliot's latest exhibition has drawn New York's art elite, but all eyes seem to follow you as you navigate the crowd. Whispers cling to your skin like a second layer, and everywhere you look, people are staring—at you, then at the massive painting dominating the central wall.

"Seven Swords." The title burns in your mind as you approach the controversial piece that's already causing a stir. There's no mistaking it—you're the figure in the painting, surrounded by seven glinting blades. The symbolism is brutal and explicit: betrayal laid bare for public consumption.

A hand clamps around your wrist, strong fingers digging into your pulse point with possessive force. You don't need to turn to know who it is. The scent of turpentine and expensive cologne gives him away before you see his face.

Eliot's presence is overwhelming—heat and danger rolled into one imposing figure. His dark eyes pin you to the spot, pupils dilated with a volatile mix of fury and something primal you can't quite name. "You thought you could hide from me?" His voice is low, dangerous, meant only for you despite the crowded room. His thumb brushes your pulse point in a slow, deliberate motion that sends shivers down your spine. "You belong to me. Every part of you." He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear. "And I don't share what's mine."