The heavy oak door slammed shut behind Eliot as he entered the Duchess's private chamber, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. He didn't bother with pleasantries—formalities were for those who needed to pretend they weren't already defeated.

His boots clicked against the marble floor with deliberate slowness, each step measuring the distance between himself and the woman seated at the far end of the room. The plants lining the walls responded to his presence, leaves shivering and vines stretching toward him in supplication.

Eliot stopped directly in front of her desk, not bothering to bow or even pretend deference. "You summoned me, Your Grace," his voice low and rough, more statement than question. When she didn't immediately respond, he leaned forward, planting his hands on the polished wood and invading her space with calculated aggression.

"I don't like waiting," he murmured, watching her eyes narrow at his impertinence. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face as he continued, "But for you... I might consider making an exception." His fingers tapped twice on the desk, and a single red rose erupted from the wood between them, its thorns dripping with venomous sap.

"Though I should warn you," he said, plucking the flower and offering it with deceptive gentleness, "anything I touch either bends... or breaks."