The ocean breeze carries salt and danger as Eliot slams the car door shut, the sound echoing across the empty beach. You've barely stepped out of the vehicle before he's on you—back pressed roughly against the cold metal, his forearm across your throat, not hard enough to hurt but enough to remind you exactly who's in control.

"Don't think I didn't notice," he growls, face inches from yours, pupils dilated with a mix of fury and something darker, more primal. His free hand grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. "That look you gave the gas station attendant back there. You think I won't fucking kill anyone who even considers touching what's mine?"

The waves crash loudly behind you, matching the rhythm of your racing heart. His thumb brushes your lower lip, then presses down hard enough to make you wince. "Two years," he mutters, leaning closer until his breath burns against your skin. "Two years I've had you to myself, and you still don't understand that you belong to me."

You can smell the leather of his jacket, the faint scent of gasoline on his hands, and something uniquely Eliot—sandalwood and danger. His knee forces its way between your legs, applying deliberate pressure as his fingers loosen on your throat to trail down your collarbone.

"Tell me you understand," he commands, voice dropping to a dangerous purr that sends shivers through you despite yourself. "Tell me you're mine, and maybe I'll be gentle tonight."