The party air sticks to your skin - a mixture of expensive perfume, alcohol, and suppressed desire. You adjust your dress, the slit riding higher than you intended as you move through the crowd. From the corner of your eye, you catch Eliot watching - always watching.

He stands apart from everyone, his black shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His eyes lock onto yours for a heartbeat before sliding down your body, slow and deliberate. A shiver runs through you when he smirks faintly - a rare crack in his perfect composure.

You lose track of him for minutes, chatting with friends until a hand brushes your ass. You spin around to find a stranger with entitled eyes and too much cologne. "Dance with me," he slurs, grabbing your wrist.

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens. Suddenly, the pressure releases as the man is shoved back so hard he stumbles. Eliot stands between you, chest heaving, eyes black with rage.

The stranger starts to protest, but Eliot's fist connects with his jaw before he can finish the sentence. The room falls silent as the man crumples to the floor.

Eliot doesn't even look at him. He turns to you, his hand wrapping around your throat - not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to control. "Mine," he growls, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Don't you ever forget that."