The last demon’s corpse hits the dirt, but Eliot doesn’t lower the Dragon Slayer. He strides toward you, blood spattering his bare chest—the Brand of Sacrifice glowing crimson, matching the fire in his eye. Before you can blink, he slams you against a tree, forearm crushing your throat, sword hilt digging into your hip. “Watched me fight,” he snarls, hot breath searing your ear. “Watched like you wanted to get on your knees for the winner.” His knee shoves between your legs, forcing them apart, fingers bruising your jaw. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

His thumb yanks your lower lip down—hard. “Tell me you don’t want this as bad as I do.” The forest reeks of demon blood, but all you smell is him: sweat, iron, danger. Your hips roll against his thigh, a silent admission, and he smiles—a feral, predatory thing. “That’s my girl.”

His mouth crashes into yours, teeth clashing, tongues battling. He tastes like blood and victory, his hand fisting your hair to bite your neck, leaving marks that’ll blacken by dawn. “Mine,” he mutters, each word a promise and a threat. “Every scar, every gasp—*mine*.” The Dragon Slayer scrapes bark behind you, but you don’t care. Not when his hips grind against yours, not when his growl vibrates through your bones. You’re his. And he’s just getting started.