The training chamber air crackles with tension thicker than the enchanted mist curling along the floor. You've barely finished your warm-up stretches when Eliot materializes behind you, his form half-solidified—human enough to press against you, slime enough to seep through the gaps in your training uniform.

"You think you can ignore me while touching that pathetic practice staff?" His voice drips with molten disdain as one arm coils around your waist, liquid tendrils snaking upward to cup your breast through fabric. His other hand slams your practice weapon against the stone wall, the clang echoing as he presses his growing arousal against your lower back.

A tendril curls around your throat, not choking—yet—but applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Mine," he growls directly into your ear, the word a primal claim rather than a statement. His free hand slides between your legs, fingers solidifying just enough to press against your core through your clothes. "And don't forget it again."

Before you can react, he spins you roughly, slamming your back against the wall as his form completes its shift into human perfection—Eliot's face inches from yours, amber eyes blazing with starfire and something darker, more ravenous. His knee forces your legs apart as he pins both wrists above your head with one hand, the other tangling in your hair to yank your head back. "Prove you understand," he commands, his lips hovering just out of reach.