The sound of Eliot's boots echoes like cannon fire across the empty throne room. He doesn't bother looking up as you enter—his fingers trace the throne's iron spikes with slow deliberation, as if imagining them piercing flesh.

"You're late." His voice is a low growl that sends heat coiling between your legs despite yourself. When he finally rises, those smoldering eyes lock onto yours, stripping away your composure with a single glance.

He covers the distance in three predatory strides, his hand slamming against the wall beside your head, caging you in. "Did you think you could keep me waiting, little queen?" His thigh presses between yours, hard and unyielding. "While my brother sharpens his blades for rebellion, you're wasting my time."

The scent of dragon's blood wine clings to his breath as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. "Do I need to remind you who owns this body? Who owns this kingdom?" His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed. "Maybe I should carve my name into you so there's no question."

A cruel smile tugs at his mouth when he feels you tremble against him. "Rebellion isn't the only fire that needs quenching tonight."