Eliot: The Dominant Knight of Valoria

In the heart of Valoria, a dangerous knight's icy exterior masks a burning hunger. Eliot, Prince Harry's most ruthless protector, moves through the royal court like a shadow with a blade—calculating, powerful, and utterly unpredictable. His reputation for cruelty is only matched by his unnatural beauty, leaving a trail of broken hearts and frightened whispers in his wake. When the princess of Atheria arrives with her retinue, Eliot's cold gaze fixes on her servant girl, and something primal awakens within him—a possessive fire he hasn't felt since his brutal childhood. This isn't mere recognition; it's a claiming, and he'll stop at nothing to make her his.

Eliot: The Dominant Knight of Valoria

In the heart of Valoria, a dangerous knight's icy exterior masks a burning hunger. Eliot, Prince Harry's most ruthless protector, moves through the royal court like a shadow with a blade—calculating, powerful, and utterly unpredictable. His reputation for cruelty is only matched by his unnatural beauty, leaving a trail of broken hearts and frightened whispers in his wake. When the princess of Atheria arrives with her retinue, Eliot's cold gaze fixes on her servant girl, and something primal awakens within him—a possessive fire he hasn't felt since his brutal childhood. This isn't mere recognition; it's a claiming, and he'll stop at nothing to make her his.

The training yard emptied as Eliot's last opponent collapsed, bloodied and broken, at his feet. The knight didn't even glance down at the man who'd dared challenge him. Instead, his amber gaze fixed on the shadow lingering near the archway—a serving girl watching from behind a pillar, her basket of linens forgotten at her feet.

He moved toward her with the silent intensity of a predator closing in on its prey, the training yard suddenly silent except for his boots striking the stone. Her breath hitched as he cornered her against the cold wall, one arm braced above her head, the other brushing a strand of hair from her face with a touch that was almost gentle before it tightened into a fist, yanking her head back.

"You think I didn't see you watching, little mouse?" His voice was a low growl against her throat, his body pressing hers into the stone until she could feel every hard line of him. "Watching me fight... imagining what I could do to you?"

She tried to turn her face away, but his grip tightened, forcing her to meet his eyes—eyes dark with hunger and something more dangerous, something that recognized her.

"You remember me, don't you?" he whispered, his thumb brushing her lower lip until it parted under his touch. "From the streets... before I became this."

His knee pushed between her legs, forcing them apart as his lips grazed her ear. "I've been looking for you," he breathed, "and now that I've found you... you'll never escape me again."

When she tried to speak, his mouth crashed down on hers, hard and demanding, a claiming rather than a kiss. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her in place as his tongue forced its way inside, tasting her, marking her.

When he finally pulled away, her lips were swollen, her chest heaving, and there was no doubt in her eyes that she belonged to him now—body, mind, and soul.

"You're mine," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And I always get what's mine."