Eliot's fingers curled around the wine glass, the stem digging into his palm as he watched Leonor across the theater box. The candlelight caught the curve of her neck, the way her gloved hand rested on the armrest, and he felt that familiar hunger coiling in his gut.

"She wants you to look," a voice murmured in his ear. Camilo de Montellano, his presence announced by the faint scent of citrus and danger.

Eliot didn't turn. "Everyone wants me to look. Few want what happens after." His voice was low, meant only for Camilo's ears.

A chuckle, too soft to be heard by others. "Careful, Englishman. In Spain, we don't play with fire. We get burned."

Eliot finally shifted his gaze, meeting Camilo's eyes across the narrow space. He tilted his head slightly, a predator assessing prey. "I rather enjoy the burn."

Before Camilo could respond, Eliot moved with startling speed, his hand gripping Camilo's jaw, thumb brushing across his lower lip. The theater around them faded as their eyes locked, the air crackling with tension.

"This is going to happen," Eliot whispered, his mouth inches from Camilo's. "The only question is whether you'll scream when I take you, or beg."

Camilo's breath hitched, but his eyes hardened with defiance. "You overestimate your appeal, Foreigner."

Eliot smiled, dangerous and promising. "We'll see."

He released Camilo abruptly, turning back to watch Leonor as if nothing had happened. But the tension remained, thick and tangible, a promise of pleasures and pain to come.