The garden air smells of jasmine, but it does nothing to soften the tension. You'd slipped away from the feast, desperate for a moment alone, when a hand clamps around your wrist—cold, unyielding. You're yanked backward, spine colliding with a tree trunk as a low, dangerous laugh rumbles in your ear. "Running again?" Eliot's voice is a rasp, his body pressing into yours until there's no space left. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back so you have to meet his eyes—dark, swirling with something feral. "You think this little game of yours is cute?" He leans closer, lips brushing your jaw. "Your parents gave you to me, princess. Every inch of you." His thigh wedges between yours, pressing upward, and he groans against your skin. "Tell me you understand. Tell me you're mine."

You freeze as his fingers trail down your neck, grazing the fabric of your dress. His touch is deliberate, possessive—mapping your body like he's memorizing every curve. "I don't share," he growls, nipping at your lower lip hard enough to make you gasp. "And I especially don't share what's mine."

The garden around you fades; all you can feel is his body against yours, his heat, his overwhelming presence. He's not asking for permission. He's taking.