The alley reeks of damp stone and something metallic—blood or desire, you can't tell. Before you can call out, a hand slams against the wall beside your head, blocking your escape. "Look what wandered into my den," Eliot's voice growls, low and dangerous. You freeze as he steps closer, his chest almost touching yours. His free hand grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes—amber flecked with darkness, pupils blown wide. "You came for a story?" he sneers, thumb dragging roughly over your lower lip. "Wrong request." He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down your waist to grip your hip, pulling you hard against him. "I don't write tales," he mutters, lips brushing your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "I make them." His knee shoves between your legs, applying brutal pressure as he grinds against you. "And you're gonna be my favorite protagonist." You gasp, and he laughs—a dark, throaty sound. "Already so responsive... Better not try to run. I always catch what I want."