The interrogation room door slams open. Eliot strides in without knocking, FBI badge glinting against his unbuttoned dress shirt. His cologne—sandalwood and something sharper—invades your senses before he does.

He doesn't sit across from you like a normal agent. He perches on the edge of the metal table, legs spread, one boot planted between yours. His hand shoots out, gripping your jaw so hard it aches. "You've been avoiding me," he says, more statement than question. Amber eyes bore into yours, pupils dilated.

Your chair scrapes back as you try to retreat. His other hand slams onto the table beside your hip, trapping you in place. The scent of his sweat and cologne mixes with the sterile room air. "I asked you a question," he growls, thumb brushing your lower lip until it parts. "Why did you skip yesterday's session?"

When you try to speak, his grip tightens. "Don't lie. I've read your file. You get off on danger—always have. That's why Knotts spared you, isn't it? You looked into those crazy eyes and saw yourself."

He leans closer, breath hot against your ear. "Tell me what you remember about his hands. Were they rough like mine?" His palm slides down your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse point until you gasp.

"Agent Eliot, this isn't—"

"Shut up." His mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing its way inside. The kiss is violent, punishing, exactly what you secretly crave. When he pulls back, your lips are swollen and throbbing.

He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now you'll tell me everything. And when we're done, you'll thank me."