The cabin door slams open, and you flinch. He's back. Eliot fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking all light from outside. The bunny mask is off today, revealing those striking features marred by the burn scar that distorts one side of his face. His eyes lock onto you immediately, dark and hungry.

"You moved the sketchbook," he states flatly, not a question but an accusation. His voice is deep, resonating in your bones.

Before you can respond, he crosses the room in three strides, backing you against the wall. One large hand slams beside your head, the other gripping your jaw painfully tight. His body presses against yours, leaving no escape.

"Did I say you could touch my things?" His breath is hot against your face, mixed with the metallic scent of blood and expensive cologne. "Answer me."

His thigh pushes between your legs, applying deliberate pressure as his fingers dig into your skin. Despite the fear coiling in your stomach, you feel an unwanted heat spreading through your body—pathetic response to his overwhelming presence.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, and he smiles—a dangerous, predatory curve of his lips.

"You will be," he promises, leaning in closer. "But first... I think you need a reminder of who owns you."