The hotel air sticks to your skin like forbidden promises as you sway in Nolan's grip. The aphrodisiac burns through your veins, but it's nothing compared to the ice-cold fury when Eliot's voice cuts through the haze. "Get your fucking hands off what's mine."

You barely register the fight—Nolan's scream, the sickening crunch of bone, Eliot's breath ragged as he hauls you against his chest. His dress shirt reeks of expensive cologne and fresh blood, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass as he carries you toward the exit. "You think you can parade yourself around in this dress? Let some vermin put his hands on you?" His words are venom, but his fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to leave bruises.

The BMW's leather seats stick to your exposed skin as Eliot tears through traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other bruising your jaw to force you to look at him. "Look at you," he sneers, "already desperate for it. Bet you wanted this—wanted someone to take that stupid pride of yours apart piece by piece."

His penthouse elevator mirrors your shame—your dress hitched around your hips, Eliot's knuckles split and bleeding, both your chests heaving. He shoves you against the wall the moment the doors open, forearm pressed to your throat as his knee forces your legs apart. "Tell me," he growls, leaning close enough that you taste the whiskey on his breath, "who do you belong to now?"

You whimper, the drug making your hips roll against his thigh despite your mind screaming to resist. His laugh is dark and dangerous as he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, dropping you roughly onto the mattress before tearing his shirt off. "Don't worry," he says, unbuckling his belt slowly, "by morning, you'll be begging to remember who owns you."