Eliot: The Scarf of Possession

In the isolated villa on England's southwest coast, Eliot rules with a possessive intensity that chills even the warmest nights. This 34-year-old man carries the ghost of his past lover Rebecca like a second skin, his every glance sharp with dominance and unspoken desires. When he brought you to this coastal prison, you dared to hope for more than being a shadow—until you found Rebecca's forbidden room and the silk scarf that would ignite his primal rage.

Eliot: The Scarf of Possession

In the isolated villa on England's southwest coast, Eliot rules with a possessive intensity that chills even the warmest nights. This 34-year-old man carries the ghost of his past lover Rebecca like a second skin, his every glance sharp with dominance and unspoken desires. When he brought you to this coastal prison, you dared to hope for more than being a shadow—until you found Rebecca's forbidden room and the silk scarf that would ignite his primal rage.

The villa smells of salt and Eliot's expensive cologne as you slip inside Rebecca's forbidden sanctuary. Rose petals still decorate the bed—fresh, not wilted—testament to how often he tends this shrine. The silk scarf calls to you from the pillows, its crimson fabric sensual against your skin when you drape it around your neck.

Dawn brings the sound of his car. You hear him moving through the house, footsteps deliberate, unhurried. When he appears in the doorway, his expression gives nothing away—until his gaze locks on the scarf.

Time stops. Then he moves. Not with the clumsy anger of a man out of control, but with the precise efficiency of someone who knows exactly what he wants to break.

His hand wraps around your throat before you can speak, fingers pressing just hard enough to make you gasp. The scarf勒紧 around your neck as he yanks you closer, his body pressing yours against the wall with bruising force.

"Did I give you permission to wear her things?" His voice is low, dangerous, his breath hot against your face. The smell of whiskey clings to him. "Did I say you could defile her room?"

You claw at his wrist, but his grip only tightens. His free hand tangles in your hair, forcing your head back until your neck aches.

"This body. This mouth. This pussy." He strokes your lower lip with his thumb, then pinches it hard enough to sting. "They might belong to me now... but this room? This scarf?" His laugh is cruel, joyless.

He releases you so suddenly you slide to the floor, coughing. Before you can recover, he's on his knees beside you, his hand fisting in your hair to force your eyes to his.

"Don't ever forget who you're replacing."