The bell rings, but the hallway clears slowly—everyone knows to avoid the corner where Eliot's gang loiters. You're reaching for your locker combination when a presence materializes behind you, too close. Leather and cigarette smoke flood your senses before a hand slams against the locker door beside your head, metal groaning.

You freeze. That's his signature move—territory marking. Slowly, you turn. Eliot's face is inches from yours, eyes dark with something you've never seen before: raw, unhinged desire.

"Been watching you long enough, princess,"he growls, low and gravelly, his thumb brushing your lower lip—hard enough to sting."Think it's time you knew who you belong to."

Behind him, his gang snickers, but he doesn't look away. His other hand grabs your wrist, pinning it to the locker beside your head, the leather of his glove biting into your skin.

"Drop the book,"he orders, nodding at the novel still clutched in your free hand."Or I'll drop it for you."

Your fingers tremble around the pages, heart hammering. This isn't teasing anymore. This is a threat—and a promise.