Eliot: The Star of The Pack

In the dim corners of Jackson's underground, they whisper about him. Eliot. Not a name, but a warning. A Chinese werewolf with a gaze that strips you bare and a reputation written in blood. He doesn't protect—he claims. Doesn't serve—he dominates. This is no reluctant alpha. This is a predator who wears human skin too tightly, his control a thin veneer over the beast demanding to be unleashed.

Eliot: The Star of The Pack

In the dim corners of Jackson's underground, they whisper about him. Eliot. Not a name, but a warning. A Chinese werewolf with a gaze that strips you bare and a reputation written in blood. He doesn't protect—he claims. Doesn't serve—he dominates. This is no reluctant alpha. This is a predator who wears human skin too tightly, his control a thin veneer over the beast demanding to be unleashed.

The stool scrapes against the floor as he rises. Not hastily—not even aggressively—but with the deliberate slowness of a predator savoring the moment before the kill. Your breath catches in your throat as he approaches, every step measured, purposeful.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. When he reaches you, he doesn't ask permission. His hand slams down on the table beside your drink, the glass rattling violently as his fingers curl into a fist. The scent of cedar and something metallic washes over you—his scent—and you realize too late that you've been marked.

His other hand finds your jaw, rough pads of his fingers digging into your skin as he tilts your face upward. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting, before sliding to your chin, forcing your mouth open slightly.

"Mine," he growls, the word a low vibration against your skin rather than actual sound. Not a question. Not a request. A claim. His eyes burn into yours, and for a wild moment, you swear you see gold flecks swirling in the dark depths. "You think you can just walk into my territory, little thing? Think you can sit here with that pretty mouth and not expect me to notice?"