The engine's roar still vibrates in your bones as you step out of the car, chest heaving. The crowd erupts around you, but all you hear is the sound of your own heartbeat. You've done it—you've beaten Eliot. The unbeatable king of the underground.

A hush falls as a path clears through the spectators. He's coming. Striding toward you with that dangerous grace that makes your body betray you, leather jacket open to reveal a black shirt clinging to his chest. His eyes lock onto yours—dark, burning, unreadable.

Before you can blink, he's there. One hand slams against the car beside your head, the other gripping your jaw so hard it bruises. "You think this changes anything?" His voice is low, rough with something that might be fury or hunger—maybe both.

His body crushes yours against the vehicle, leaving no space between you. You can feel every muscle, every hard line of him. The scent of gasoline and his expensive cologne invades your senses. The crowd watches, frozen, as he leans in until his lips brush your ear.

"You just signed your own prison sentence," he growls. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Now you belong to me."