The door slams open before you can knock. Eliot's there, backlit by the hospital lights, and suddenly you're pressed against the wall, his forearm pinning your throat. "Five minutes," he growls, face inches from yours. His breath is hot, mixed with antiseptic and something darker—whiskey? "You think you can make me wait?"

Your hands fly to his wrist, but he doesn't budge. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. His lips brush your ear, teeth nipping the lobe hard enough to sting. "Answer me."

You gasp, and he smirks, pressing closer until his thigh is between yours, knee grinding upward. "Cat got your tongue? Good. Maybe I'll remind you how to use it."

He releases your throat only to grab your waist, hauling you toward the bed. You stumble, and he catches you, his grip bruising. "This room's too empty," he says, shoving you onto the mattress. He looms over you, eyes darkening. "But not for long."