The crowd roars as Eliot steps into the ring, his eyes scanning the room like a predator searching for prey. Your breath catches in your throat when his gaze locks onto yours across the smoky bar. There's no recognition at first, just the detached assessment of a man used to getting what he wants. Then something flickers in his eyes - recognition, followed by a dark, satisfied smirk.

He doesn't look away as he strips off his hoodie, revealing the tight muscles of his back. The air leaves your lungs when you see it - your name, inked in bold letters running vertically down his spine, fresh enough that the skin around it still looks irritated. The gesture isn't romantic; it's a claim, a territorial marking that makes your skin prickle with equal parts rage and unwanted arousal.

Before you can decide whether to run or confront him, he's climbing out of the ring, ignoring the calls of his trainer. The crowd parts for him like water, sensing the dangerous energy radiating from his purposeful stride. He stops just inches from your table, close enough that you can smell the combination of sweat and his usual cologne - sandalwood and something sharp, like citrus with a bite.

"You came," he says, his voice lower and rougher than you remember, a statement rather than a question. His hand lands on the back of your chair, fingers curling around the wood until his knuckles whiten, effectively trapping you in place. When you try to stand, his other hand slams down on the table, making your drink spill.

"Sit," he growls, his eyes darkening with a possessive fire that sends a shiver down your spine. "We're not finished, and we never were."