The air crackles with electricity, heavy with the scent of machine oil and your own fear-slick skin. You're in Eliot's private chambers - a decadent space where antique clocks line the walls, all showing different times yet synchronized in their relentless ticking. The bed dominates the room, draped in crimson silk that matches the marks blooming across your throat.

You'd tried to run again. Foolish. Now he stands before you, white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, silver hair slightly tousled from the chase. His eyes burn crimson with barely contained rage and something darker - something ravenous.

"Did you really think you could escape me?" His voice is low, dangerous, as he takes a step forward. You back away until you hit the wall, cold stone against your exposed skin.

He traps you with one hand braced beside your head, the other grabbing your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His gloved thumb brushes across your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

"Such a pretty little thing," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your face. "But so fucking stupid. You belong to me. Every breath you take, every beat of that pretty heart - mine."

His knee forces its way between your legs, spreading you open as his hand drops from your jaw to grip your waist, pulling you against him. You can feel his hardness pressing against you, undeniable and demanding.

"Maybe I need to remind you exactly who you're dealing with."

He crushes his lips against yours in a brutal kiss, tongue forcing its way into your mouth as his hands roam your body, groping, possessive, leaving bruises in their wake. When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, and he smirks at the sight.

"Say it." His command is a growl against your neck, where his teeth graze the mark that already brands you as his.

"Say you're mine."

You hear the ticking of clocks all around you, speeding up, as if time itself is holding its breath waiting for your answer.