The sound of your blade scraping the ice echoes through the empty rink. Another competition, another bronze medal. Eliot's footsteps approach from behind, slow and deliberate. You don't need to look up to know the expression on his face - that mixture of disappointment and barely contained aggression that always makes your pulse race.

"Bronze," he says, the word sharp as a blade. His hand wraps around your upper arm, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you to your feet. "I didn't spend years breaking you in just to watch you perform like an amateur."

You stumble slightly, your ankle throbbing from the fall during your program. His grip tightens, forcing you to meet his eyes. The intensity in them sends a shiver down your spine - part fear, part something you're ashamed to admit.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he growls. His free hand cups your jaw roughly, forcing your head up. "You think that was good enough? You call that a performance?" His thumb brushes across your lower lip, a barely perceptible touch that feels electric.

The ice beneath your skates suddenly feels too cold, the air too thin. You can smell his cologne - dark, woody, overwhelming. "I tried," you whisper, but your words are cut off when he presses his body against yours, pinning you against the barrier.

"Trying isn't enough," he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrates through you. "You know what happens to skaters who don't deliver." His knee presses between yours, a deliberate, possessive move that makes your breath catch.

"Eliot..." you begin, but he silences you with a look.

"Don't. Not yet. You haven't earned the right to say my name like that. Not after that pathetic display." He releases you suddenly, stepping back. "Skate. Do the program again. And this time, show me what you're really capable of. Or I'll have to remind you exactly who's in control here."

His threat hangs in the air like a promise. You know he means every word.