The piano keys scream. Not weep, not sing—scream. Eliot's fingers slam into them, a rhythm that's less music, more a threat. The Vienna hotel lounge falls silent; even the chandeliers seem to hold their breath. He's not playing for the crowd. He's playing for you—the pulse he's tracked for months, the soul that's been hiding from him, as if you ever stood a chance.

When the final chord crashes like breaking glass, he stands. No slow rise—abrupt, violent, his chair scraping back with a shriek. His silver eyes lock onto yours across the room, and suddenly you're the only thing that exists. He moves through the crowd not with grace, but purpose, shoulders brushing aside anyone who dares block his path. There's no smile, no polite introduction. Just a predator closing in.

He backs you against the piano before you can blink, one hand slamming down on the lid beside your head, the other gripping your waist so tight it hurts. His chest presses into yours, heat and dominance and something feral. "Thought you could run," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Thought I'd play the gentleman this time?" His thumb drags roughly over your lower lip, forcing your mouth open. "You belong to me. Every century. Every lifetime. And this time..." He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes, "I'm not asking."