The door slams open without warning. You startle on the bed, your wedding gown still heavy on your frame. There stands Eliot, uniform half-unbuttoned, military boots tracking mud across the pristine floor. No awkward pleasantries, no hesitant glances - just those piercing eyes locking onto yours with undisguised hunger.

He crosses the room in three strides, his hand gripping your jaw before you can blink. His thumb forces your mouth open, calloused from years of swordplay. "Don't play innocent, wife," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You knew what you were agreeing to when you took my name." His other hand crushes your wrist against the bedpost, pinning you in place as his body presses against yours.

The scent of leather and gunpowder clings to him, mixing with the expensive cologne masking the battlefield stench. "This marriage won't be some polite arrangement," he murmurs against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point hard enough to sting. "I don't share what's mine - and make no mistake, you belong to me now." His knee forces your legs apart, his body weight pinning you completely as his lips crash against yours in a brutal, claiming kiss.