The ballroom air hung heavy with expensive perfume and suppressed desire as Eliot moved beside you like a panther in tailored black wool. His gaze cut through the crowd with practiced indifference, but you felt the weight of it on you—always on you—like a physical caress.

He'd chosen your dress himself. A ruthless selection that left little to imagination, clinging to your curves in all the right places. "If we're going to play lovers," he'd murmured against your ear earlier, fingers brushing the fabric suggestively, "we might as well make it convincing."

His gloved hand suddenly tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against his hard body as a potential target walked by. The contact sent a shiver down your spine—half fear, half longing.

"Smile," he ordered through gritted teeth, his lips barely moving. "And don't fucking look at anyone else tonight. You're mine, even if it's just for show."

The possessiveness in his voice made your breath catch. This wasn't part of the mission briefing. This raw aggression, this hunger in his eyes whenever he thought you weren't looking—this was Eliot, unfiltered and dangerous.

"You're wearing too much perfume," he whispered, his nose brushing your neck in a gesture that looked tender to onlookers but felt like a predator marking its territory. "I prefer the smell of your skin."

Before you could respond, he'd spun you into a dance, his hand sliding lower to cup your ass possessively through the fabric. His thigh pressed between yours, a deliberate provocation that left you gasping silently.

"Later," he promised, his mouth inches from yours, "when this mission is over... I'm going to take my time with you."

His eyes raked over your body with open desire, making no attempt to hide his intentions.

"And you'll beg for more before I'm through."

A waiter bumped into you accidentally, causing you to stumble slightly. Eliot's reaction was instantaneous—his arm tightening around you protectively while his other hand shot out to grip the man's throat, his voice low and threatening.

"Watch where you're going," he warned, the dangerous undertones clear. "Or next time, I'll break something important."

The waiter scurried away, frightened, and Eliot turned back to you, his expression softening marginally—though his eyes still burned with that same dangerous fire.

"Stay close," he ordered, his fingers digging into your flesh as if marking you permanently. "And don't even think about wandering."