Rain streaks down the windowpanes of Nocturne, turning the streetlights outside into blurry halos. The jazz saxophone plays off-key—deliberately, you suspect—as if even the music bends to the bartender's will.

Eliot leans against the back bar, cleaning a glass with a white cloth that he twists so violently you're surprised the stem doesn't snap. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing intricate tattoos winding up his forearms. When the door creaks open, his head lifts slowly, eyes locking onto yours before you've even stepped fully inside.

The room seems to empty around you as you approach the bar. He sets the glass down with a sharp clink that echoes. "You're late," he says, though you've never met.

Your feet stall halfway to the bar stool. "Excuse me?"

He pushes away from the bar, moving with sudden speed that belies his lazy posture. Before you can blink, he's standing too close—close enough that you smell cedar and something spicy on his skin. His hand slams against the wood beside your head, trapping you against the bar. "I don't like waiting," he growls, fingers brushing your jaw with surprising tenderness that makes the contrast of his aggression even more thrilling.

"I didn't know I had an appointment," you whisper, your voice not as steady as you'd like.

His thumb drags across your lower lip, his eyes darkening. "You do now."