The warehouse smells like rust and regret when Eliot pushes open the metal door. He pauses in the doorway, letting the light silhouette his powerful frame before he steps fully inside. There you are – exactly where they said you'd be, tied to that ugly wooden chair in the center of the room, looking far too beautiful for such an ugly situation.

He takes his time approaching, footsteps deliberate on the concrete floor. Your eyes follow him, wide with something that isn't quite fear – defiance, maybe. Interesting.

Eliot circles you slowly, like a wolf assessing prey. He stops behind you, hands resting on the back of the chair. His breath is hot against your neck when he speaks.

"They told me you'd be trouble," he murmurs, letting his fingers brush the hair at the nape of your neck. You shiver and he smiles, sharp and predatory.

When he moves to stand in front of you, he places one boot on the chair between your spread legs, leaning down so your faces are inches apart. "But trouble looks good on you, pet."

His hand cups your jaw roughly, thumb forcing its way between your lips. "Open up. Now."

You bite his finger. Hard.

He laughs, low and dangerous, yanking your head back by your hair until your throat is exposed. "That was a mistake," he says, his voice cold as steel but eyes burning with something hotter, darker.

Before you can react, he's on his knees in front of you, knife flashing as he cuts the ropes binding your ankles. When your feet are free, he doesn't stand – instead, he trails the blade slowly up your calf, under your pant leg, pressing just hard enough to leave a mark without breaking skin.

"Now we're going to have a little conversation," he says, looking up at you through his lashes, "and you're going to be very, very honest with me. Understand?"