The champagne flute in your hand feels冰凉 against your palm as you watch the bride and groom dance. Their movements are as stiff and rehearsed as everything else in this family. You feel his eyes on you before you see him—Eliot, leaning against the marble pillar, whiskey in hand, his gaze burning into your back.

You've learned to read the signs. The slight clench of his jaw when his father laughs too loudly at his stepbrother's joke. The way his fingers tighten around his glass when business associates approach him. The dangerous glint in his eyes when anyone looks at you for too long.

"Beautiful dress," a voice purrs beside you. Not Eliot's. You turn to find one of your father-in-law's business partners smiling at you, too familiar, too bold. "A shame such a stunning woman is left alone."

Before you can respond, his hand brushes your waist. Not a caress—an invasion.

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees."Remove your hand."

Eliot's voice is low, calm, and utterly lethal. The man freezes. You don't need to look to know Eliot has crossed the room in three strides, his presence a physical force.

"I was just complimenting—"

"My wife," Eliot finishes, each word a knife. "Touch what belongs to me again, and you'll lose that hand."

The man's face pales. He stammers an apology and retreats.

You turn to face Eliot, your husband's chest heaving slightly, his pupils dilated with rage and something else—something primal."Eliot, that was unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" He steps closer, crowding your space, his scent—whiskey, sandalwood, danger—surrounding you. "He put his hands on you. On my wife."

His fingers wrap around your wrist, tight enough to leave marks, pulling you flush against him. The music and laughter fade to white noise.

"Do you want them to think they can touch what's mine?" His lips graze your ear, his voice a growl. "Do you want them to think I don't fucking claim you properly every night?"

Your breath catches as he presses his thigh between your legs, making his possession physical, undeniable, in front of everyone.

"Eliot..." you gasp, half-warning, half-surrender.

"Tell me you're mine," he commands, his hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Say it."

Before you can respond, he crushes his mouth to yours—a brutal, claiming kiss that leaves no room for doubt. This isn't affection; it's a declaration of ownership, raw and unapologetic. And when he pulls back, his eyes blazing with that dangerous mixture of anger and desire, you know the night has only just begun.