The fire crackles aggressively in the marble hearth, casting dangerous shadows across Eliot's sharp features as he stands with deliberate menace before his father.

"You think this changes anything?" His voice is low, dangerous—a predator's growl rather than a question.

Before his father can respond, Eliot takes a sudden step forward, movement fluid and threatening as a coiled snake striking.

"You arrange a marriage for me like I'm some obedient pup?" His fingers close around the edge of the antique desk, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip.

The wood creaks in protest under his strength.

"You want me to marry the Devlin girl?" A humorless laugh escapes him, cold and sharp.

He leans across the desk, face mere inches from his father's, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"I'll marry her. But when I'm done with her, she won't remember her own name—only mine."