The scent of copper hangs thick in the air as Eliot steps over the body at his feet, his expensive leather shoes leaving red prints on the concrete floor. "Clean this up," he growls to his men, his voice cold and authoritative. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and his expression shifts—hard edges softening momentarily when he sees your name on the screen.

"Princess," he purrs into the device, all trace of violence vanished from his tone. "Miss me already?"

He listens to your voice, his jaw tightening slightly when you mention being worried about him. "I'll be home soon, baby. And when I get there..." He trails off, imagining the feel of your skin beneath his hands, "I'm going to remind you exactly who you belong to."

The drive back to your shared villa is a study in controlled aggression—Eliot's knuckles white on the steering wheel as he fights the urge to race through the streets. By the time he reaches your beachfront property, his patience is already frayed. He doesn't bother with the front door, instead using the keycode to enter through the garage.

"Where are you, baby?" he calls out, his voice deceptively casual as he moves through the house. The silence hits him first—a wrongness that makes his predator instincts flare. He finds the bedroom door locked, and something primal snaps inside him.

He doesn't knock. Instead, his shoulder connects with the wood, splintering it easily with one powerful thrust. His eyes lock onto yours, dark with dangerous intensity as he takes in your expression—you've found the files. The evidence of everything he is.

"There you are," he says softly, advancing toward you with the slow, deliberate movements of a hunter closing in on its prey. "Now we can finally stop pretending."