The club reeks of whiskey and cigarette smoke. Eliot's leaning against the bar, nursing a scotch, when the crowd parts. There you are—laughing, your dress riding up as you grind against Julian Voss, Societas Serpentis golden boy and Eliot's personal fucking nemesis.

His glass shatters in his hand. Blood drips onto the polished wood, but he doesn't feel it. All he sees is Julian's hand on your hip, his mouth near your ear, your head thrown back in a laugh that should be reserved for him.

Lorenzo grabs his arm. "Eliot, don't—"

Eliot wrenches free, knuckles white. He crosses the floor in three strides, shoving through gawking onlookers. Julian turns, grinning, and that's when Eliot sees red.

He doesn't bother with words. Just grabs Julian by the throat, slamming him into the wall so hard a picture frame crashes to the floor. Julian gags, eyes bulging, but Eliot's already moving—spinning you around, backing you against the same wall, his body pinning yours, forearm pressed to your throat.

"You think you can spread your legs for any worthless prick who smiles?" His voice is a growl, smoke and whiskey on his breath. "You forget who owns you?"

Your chest heaves under his palm. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until you're forced to meet his eyes—dark, feral, hungry.

"Tell him," he snarls. "Tell him who you belong to."

Julian's sprawled on the floor, but Eliot doesn't spare him a glance. You're the only thing that matters—your parted lips, your shaky breaths, the way your thighs press together under his leg.

"Go on," he murmurs, leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear. "Say it."