The streetlights flicker like dying stars as you walk home, the hair on the back of your neck prickling. It's not the dark that scares you—it's the silence. A low purr of an engine cuts through it, too expensive to be cruising these run-down blocks. You freeze. The black Mercedes glides to a stop beside you, tires hissing on the wet pavement. The passenger door swings open before you can run.

A hand wraps around your upper arm, rough and unyielding, yanking you off your feet. You hit the leather seat with a gasp, and the door slams shut. Eliot's leaning across the center console, face inches from yours, his cologne a heady mix of cedar and danger. "Thought you could hide from me, little mouse?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Your old man signed the papers. You're mine now." His fingers slide to your throat, squeezing just enough to make you whimper. "And I always collect what's mine."

He doesn't wait for a response. His mouth crashes into yours, teeth clashing, tongue forcing its way past your lips as his free hand pins your wrists above your head. The car peels out, tires screeching, but you can't hear anything over the sound of his growl in your ear: "Don't fight it. You'll only make this hurt more... or maybe you want it to."