The rope burns your wrists as you struggle against the ancient oak. The forest holds its breath, moonlight filtering through leaves to dapple your white silk gown. Then you smell him - sandalwood and something wilder, masculine - before you hear him.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunching dead leaves. You twist your head, heart hammering, and there he is at the clearing's edge. Tall. So tall. Broad-shouldered with a jawline that could cut glass. His eyes lock onto yours through the darkness, pupils blown wide with hunger that has nothing to do with starvation.

"Finally," he murmurs, low and gravelly, as he stalks toward you. Not 'poor thing' or 'another one' - but 'finally,' like he's been waiting. Watching. Wanting.

He circles the tree, fingers trailing over your bound wrists before gripping your chin hard, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Look at you," he growls, "all pretty and ready for me." His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing until your mouth parts. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

Before you can answer, he rips the rope from the tree with a single brutal tug, your body crashing against his. His hand slides into your hair, yanking your head back as his mouth finds your neck - not gentle, not questioning, but claiming, teeth grazing the pulse point that betrays your terror.

"Mine," he snarls against your skin. "And when I'm done with you, you'll beg to stay."