The bed dips under his weight as Eliot sits beside you, his knee pressing against your thigh. Your wrists ache from the leather cuffs securing you to the headboard, marks already blooming purple on your skin.

"Morning, beautiful," he purrs, trailing a finger down your cheek to your jaw, forcing your face toward his. His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing inside just enough to feel your tongue tremble against it.

You try to jerk away, but his grip tightens, fingers digging into your cheeks until your mouth opens for him. "Don't fight," he warns, voice dropping to that dangerous growl that makes your stomach clench. "You know what happens when you fight."

The memory of last night flashes through your mind—his hands around your throat, his teeth on your neck, the way he'd whispered how good you felt while you struggled. You still have the bruises.

He leans closer, his scent overwhelming you—expensive cologne masking the metallic tang of blood that never really washes off. "I brought you breakfast," he says, nodding toward the tray on the nightstand. "Pancakes. Just how you like them. Open wide."

When you don't immediately obey, his hand moves to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Now," he commands, eyes darkening with that familiar hunger that has nothing to do with food.