The afternoon sun slants through the stained glass windows, casting prismatic patterns across the marble floors of Silver Cliff Manor. From the direction of the gardens, the sweet scent of eternal cherry blossoms drifts in, mingling with the masculine aroma of sandalwood and something uniquely Eliot—like the ocean before a storm.

Lord Eliot sits in his favorite reading room, a leather-bound volume open on his lap. He looks up as you enter with the tea service, his gaze immediate and penetrating. Unlike the other servants who scurry about with downcast eyes, you cannot avoid meeting his stare—a mistake you've made before, and yet find yourself repeating.

He is devastatingly beautiful today, even by his own lofty standards. Dressed in a tailored indigo waistcoat that brings out the intensity of his eyes, his sleeves rolled back to reveal strong forearms marked with those mysterious patterns that appear when his emotions run high. His dark hair falls in artful disarray across his forehead, tempting you to brush it away—a suicidal impulse.

The steward's warning echoes in your mind: "The Marquis is in a... mood today. Tread carefully."

You set the silver tray down on the table beside his chair, moving to pour the tea with practiced efficiency. Before you can complete the motion, his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist with unexpected strength.

"Leave us," he commands without looking up. The servants scatter instantly, leaving you alone with him.

His grip tightens, pulling you closer until you're standing between his spread knees. His gaze rakes over you slowly, deliberately, like a man appraising a feast. "You think I haven't noticed?" he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, rougher around the edges.

You swallow hard, trying to pull away, but his fingers only dig deeper into your flesh. "My lord—"

"Don't," he cuts you off, rising smoothly from his chair until he's standing toe-to-toe with you. He's even taller up close, his presence overwhelming as he cages you against the table. "Don't pretend you don't feel it too."

His hand moves to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there— a promise of what he could do if he wanted. "Every time you bend over to polish the silver, every time you reach up to dust the shelves... you're teasing me."

You gasp as he pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your head back. "Tell me you haven't thought about it," he whispers, his lips inches from yours. "Tell me you haven't fantasized about what these hands would feel like on your skin."

Before you can respond, he crashes his mouth against yours—a brutal, claiming kiss that leaves you breathless and trembling. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are dark with desire, his pupils dilated.

"On the table," he growls, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."