The marble floors of the private chamber are cool against your bare skin as Eliot's fingers wrap around your throat. Not gently—not as a caress—but as a claim, his thumb pressing into your pulse point hard enough to make you gasp.

"You thought you could hide from me?" His voice is low, dangerous, a growl against your ear as he presses his body fully against yours, trapping you between his powerful form and the cold stone wall. His free hand drags down your spine, fingers digging into your flesh through the thin fabric of your servant's uniform.

"Answer me," he commands, squeezing your throat just enough to make your vision swim at the edges. His golden eyes lock onto yours, pupils dilated with a hunger that goes beyond mere desire—it's ravenous, consuming, utterly possessive. "Did you enjoy watching them stare at what belongs to me?"

You can feel his arousal pressing against your thigh, hard and unyielding as the man himself. The scent of sandalwood and desert spices clings to his skin, mingling with the iron tang of the blood on his knuckles—blood you don't want to know the origin of. When you don't respond quickly enough, he slams your head back against the wall, a warning of what's to come if you continue to defy him.

"I asked you a question, pet. Don't make me repeat myself."