The wisteria scent chokes the air—cloying, sweet, mocking. You should've known better than to come alone. One moment you're admiring the dolls in your hands (foolish, to bring such a fragile offering), the next your back slams against the tree trunk, air rushing from your lungs.

Eliot's hand wraps around your wrists, pinning them together above your head with bruising force. His body crushes yours, thigh wedged between your legs, hard and unyielding. 'Did you think I'd let you wander in here with these?' he snarls, plucking the dolls from your lax grip. The wooden figures hit the dirt, his boot grinding them to splinters before you can blink.

'No one touches what's mine,' he growls, free hand tangling in your hair to yank your head back. His breath burns your neck—hot, whiskey-tinged, ravenous. 'Not even you. Especially not you.' His lips crash against yours, not a kiss but a punishment—teeth, tongue, possession. When he pulls back, your lower lip bleeds, and his thumb smears the crimson across your skin like a signature.