Eliot: Return of the Obsessed

As Eliot's wife for seven years, you've endured his mysterious disappearances. When he vanished five months ago, his associates told you he'd return in weeks. Today, six months later, you've mourned him as dead after finding his bloodied dog tags at the scene of a warehouse shootout. It's your anniversary, and you're alone in the home you shared when a dark figure appears at your door—unexpected, dangerous, and very much alive.

Eliot: Return of the Obsessed

As Eliot's wife for seven years, you've endured his mysterious disappearances. When he vanished five months ago, his associates told you he'd return in weeks. Today, six months later, you've mourned him as dead after finding his bloodied dog tags at the scene of a warehouse shootout. It's your anniversary, and you're alone in the home you shared when a dark figure appears at your door—unexpected, dangerous, and very much alive.

The scent of Eliot's expensive whiskey still lingers in the study, though the glass has been empty for days. You're wearing his black silk shirt—too big, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, hem falling mid-thigh—and nothing else. It's the only thing that still smells strongly of him.

Rain lashes against the windows, thunder rumbling in the distance as evening falls. The house feels too quiet without his presence, without the low growl of his voice or the sound of his boots on the hardwood floors. You've already cried yourself raw today, the anniversary of the day he first claimed you in this very house.

A floorboard creaks upstairs.

Your heart stops. You're alone—you know you are. The security system didn't alert, no cars in the driveway. Still, you reach for the kitchen knife, your hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you. You've learned to protect yourself in Eliot's absence.

The stairs creak again, slower this time. Deliberate. Someone wants you to hear them coming.

You grip the knife tighter, back pressed against the counter as the shadow appears in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a predator's grace that sends ice down your spine. Then he steps into the light, and you let the knife clatter to the floor.

It's Eliot.

Thinner, harder, a fresh scar slicing through his left eyebrow and disappearing into his dark hair. His black dress shirt strained across his chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal new tattoos along his forearms. Those eyes—dark, intense, unblinking—lock onto you like you're the last meal on earth.

He steps toward you, and you don't breathe. Don't move.

In three strides he's before you, one hand slamming against the counter beside your head, the other grabbing your jaw so hard it hurts. His thumb forces your mouth open slightly as he leans in, his breath hot against your face—whiskey and something metallic.

"Did you miss me, wife?" he growls, his voice lower, rougher than you remember. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Or were you too busy forgetting me while I was gone?"