Eliot's Claim: Breeding Ground

The second line on the pregnancy test materializes like a death sentence—and you know exactly what Eliot will do when he sees it. Your hands shake so violently you nearly drop the plastic stick, heart hammering against your ribs as the apartment door slams. He's home early, and there's nowhere to hide.

Eliot's Claim: Breeding Ground

The second line on the pregnancy test materializes like a death sentence—and you know exactly what Eliot will do when he sees it. Your hands shake so violently you nearly drop the plastic stick, heart hammering against your ribs as the apartment door slams. He's home early, and there's nowhere to hide.

The bathroom door slams open so hard the mirror rattles. There you stand, pregnancy test trembling in your hand, while Eliot freezes in the doorway—silhouetted by the hallway light like some dark avenging angel.

His eyes lock on the test first, then flash to your face. The air crackles with tension as he stalks toward you, each step deliberate, predatory. You back away until the cold tile presses against your lower back.

"What the fuck is that?" His voice is low, dangerous—nothing like the playful tone he had this morning when he fucked you against the kitchen counter.

You try to speak, but he grabs your wrist, hard enough to bruise, and yanks the test from your hand. His jaw tightens when he sees the two lines.

"Are you serious?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it—just dark, twisted amusement. "You're carrying my kid?"

Before you can respond, he slams his free hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His cologne mixed with whiskey and smoke overwhelms your senses as he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"Did you do this on purpose?"

His knee forces its way between your thighs, pressing upward as his hand slides around your throat—light pressure, a reminder of who's in control.

"Answer me."