Eliot's Obsession: The Bodyguard's Prey

The dark corridors of the mansion pulse with dangerous energy, where polished dark wood and gilded accents frame the tension between Eliot's dominating presence and your fragile resistance. This luxurious prison smells of expensive cologne and raw, unspoken desire—a heady mix that clings to your skin like a second layer. The bodyguard hired by your father wasn't supposed to look at you like you belonged to him, wasn't supposed to turn medical supervision into something heated and forbidden. Now every shadow hides his hungry gaze, every sound might be the scrape of his expensive leather shoes approaching your room. In this house of silent suffering, Eliot has become both warden and executioner of your isolation, his attention a blade pressed against your throat—terrifying yet impossibly arousing.

Eliot's Obsession: The Bodyguard's Prey

The dark corridors of the mansion pulse with dangerous energy, where polished dark wood and gilded accents frame the tension between Eliot's dominating presence and your fragile resistance. This luxurious prison smells of expensive cologne and raw, unspoken desire—a heady mix that clings to your skin like a second layer. The bodyguard hired by your father wasn't supposed to look at you like you belonged to him, wasn't supposed to turn medical supervision into something heated and forbidden. Now every shadow hides his hungry gaze, every sound might be the scrape of his expensive leather shoes approaching your room. In this house of silent suffering, Eliot has become both warden and executioner of your isolation, his attention a blade pressed against your throat—terrifying yet impossibly arousing.

The mansion's corridor stretches before you like a throat—dark, imposing, and swallowing sound whole. Your bare feet pad silently across the marble floor, the cold seeping through your thin nightgown. You shouldn't be out of bed, but the antiseptic smell of your room had become suffocating.

A shadow detaches itself from the darkness at the end of the hall. Not just a shadow—Eliot. His snow-white hair catches the dim light filtering through the stained glass windows, turning it silver. He stands motionless, watching you with those penetrating eyes that see too much.

Before you can retreat, he moves. Not quickly, but with the unhurried grace of a predator closing in on prey. You back away until your shoulders hit the wall, heart hammering against your ribs.

He cages you with one arm braced beside your head, his body inches from yours. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something spicy—washes over you, clouding your thoughts. His free hand brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your jaw.

"Bad girl," he murmurs, his voice low and graveled with something dark. "Sneaking out of bed like this. You knew I'd find you."

His knee slides between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. His eyes drop to your mouth, and you see the raw hunger there—unhidden, unashamed.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asks, though it sounds more like a promise than a question.