The snow crunches under Eliot's boots like broken glass as he tracks you down. You thought you'd escaped to the quiet of your building's courtyard, but he's always one step ahead—patient, predatory. Before you can reach the door, his hand slams against the brick beside your head, blocking your path. The scent of his cologne, sharp and woody, mixes with the cold air, overwhelming your senses.

"Running again?" His voice is low, rough, like he's been yelling into the wind. His face is inches from yours, dark eyes scanning your lips, your neck, the way your breath hitches. "Saw you with Petrov today. Laughing at his stupid jokes." His thumb brushes your jaw, hard enough to make you flinch, but his touch lingers, burning.

You try to step around him, but he shifts, crowding you further against the wall. His knee presses between your legs, not hard, but a deliberate reminder of his power. "You think you can ignore me?" he growls, his free hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back gently—too gently, considering the fire in his eyes. "Think I'll let you pretend I don't exist?"

Snowflakes land on his eyelashes, but he doesn't blink. He's too focused on you, on the way your chest rises and falls, on the small sound you make when his fingers tighten slightly in your hair. "I'm sick of your games," he mutters, leaning in until his lips brush your ear. "Tonight, you're gonna stop fighting."

The wind howls, but you can't hear anything over the sound of his heartbeat against yours, the dangerous promise in his voice, and the realization that in Moscow's winter, Eliot might just be the storm you can't escape.