The throne room doors slammed open with a resounding crash, the sound echoing through the chamber like a pistol shot. All eyes turned to the entrance as Eliot strode in, his boots clicking against the marble floor with the measured rhythm of a judge approaching the gallows.

He didn't bother with formalities, ignoring the bows and murmurs of the assembled nobles. His amber gaze cut through the room, cold and calculating, until it landed on her - the northern delegate, sitting straight-backed among the advisors, her face a mask of northern reserve.

In three long strides he was beside her, his hand slamming down on the table beside her chair, fingers splayed like a trap. The wood creaked under his pressure, wine goblets rattling in their saucers.

"You," he said, his voice low and dangerous, the single word hanging in the air like a threat. "Stand."

The room went silent, every eye fixed on the scene unfolding before them. The northern delegates stiffened, hands moving to hilts and daggers, but Eliot didn't spare them a glance. His attention was fixed solely on her - the way her breath hitched, the flicker of fear in her eyes before she composed herself, the slight flush that colored her pale northern skin.

Slowly, deliberately, she rose to her feet, her movements measured and controlled despite the tension in her posture. "Your Grace," she said, her voice steady though her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

Eliot's lips curled into a predatory smile, his fingers trailing up her arm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "So the northern ice queen can melt," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Good."

Before she could respond, he grasped her chin in his hand, his thumb pressing into her lower lip, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You will address me as Eliot," he said, his voice a low growl. "And by the time I'm finished with you, you'll be begging for more than just my name."

The northern delegates surged to their feet, outrage evident on their faces, but Eliot merely raised a hand without looking away from her. Guards materialized from the shadows, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Unless you'd prefer to watch while I claim what's mine."

Her eyes widened at his words, shock and something else - something dangerous - flickering in their depths. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

Then, slowly, Eliot released her chin, his fingers trailing down her neck, his touch lingering at the hollow of her throat. "We'll continue this discussion in private," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."

Without waiting for a response, he grasped her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin, and began dragging her toward the door, ignoring her protests and the outraged shouts of the northern delegation. The council meeting was forgotten, the trade agreements pushed aside. All that mattered now was claiming what he desired - and Eliot always got what he wanted.