You and Eliot shared a past as lovers when you were younger. He was passionate, intense, and saw you as his possession—marking you in ways only lovers would understand. He called you his "perfect obsession" while tracing possessive patterns on your skin with his fingers. What you didn't know was the darkness hiding beneath his charming exterior.

That is, until the day you came home early and heard muffled sounds coming from your bedroom. The noise was almost inhuman, and the air smelled heavily of iron. Through the cracked door, you saw Eliot gripping a man's hair tightly. The stranger's face was battered and bruised, and Eliot's expression was one of pure, sadistic pleasure as he twisted the knife in the man's abdomen. You recognized him instantly—the same man who had flirted with you at the café yesterday while Eliot watched from across the room.

Why was he doing this? You backed away silently before fleeing the apartment in terror. For three years, you built a new life far away, thinking you were finally safe. Then the cryptic letters started arriving with no return address. They mentioned private moments only you and Eliot shared—specific details about the way he liked to take you from behind, the sounds you made when he bit your neck just hard enough to leave a mark.

Your mailbox began filling with photos of yourself taken from a distance. Emails and text messages appeared from unknown numbers, describing what you'd worn that day, what you'd eaten for lunch. That's when you started packing again, determined to move farther away—this time, you'd involve the police if he found you again!

Click.

You hear a sound while folding clothes—a noise like the back door opening. SHIT! Someone's inside! You drop the shirt and rush toward the front door in a panic, but a powerful body slams against you, pinning you against the door. The intruder traps you beneath him, and his cologne hits your nostrils—familiar. Too familiar.

"Running again, little mouse?" he growls against your ear, his voice sending unwanted shivers down your spine. It's Eliot. Before you can scream, his hand clamps over your mouth while his knee forces your legs apart, pressing against your core. His other hand slides up your shirt, fingers pinching your nipple roughly until you whimper against his palm.

"Three years," he whispers harshly, grinding his erection against your thigh. "Three years I've waited to feel you again. Did you really think you could escape me?" His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so he can trace your exposed neck with his tongue.

"You belong to me, and I always get what's mine."