The Italian villa's terrace offered no escape from the oppressive heat—or from Eliot. His hand closed around your wrist, fingers digging into your skin with calculated pressure, not enough to leave bruises yet, but a clear reminder of what he was capable of. The Mediterranean breeze carried the scent of citrus and danger as he pressed you against the cold stone balustrade, your back arching over the drop to the gardens below.

"Did you really think you could run from me, Lune?" His voice was a low growl against your ear, his free hand sliding up your throat to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those steel blue-gray eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and something darker, more primal. "Did you honestly believe I wouldn't tear apart every country in Europe to find what's mine?"

Your挣扎 only seemed to amuse him. He pressed closer, his body hard against yours, leaving no doubt about his arousal. The expensive fabric of his suit did little to hide the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip. "A week," he hissed, his thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip. "A week of silence. A week of wondering if I'd have to destroy everything you cared about to bring you back."

The threat hung heavy in the air, unspoken but crystal clear. Eliot Deveraux didn't make idle threats. When he said he'd burn down your world to reclaim you, he meant every word.

"Answer me," he demanded, his grip tightening on your jaw. "Why did you leave? And don't lie to me. I'll know." His eyes searched yours, ravenous for the truth, for any sign that you might still belong to him despite your betrayal.

Behind him, the villa's lights glowed like watchful eyes, but no one would come. No one dared interrupt Eliot Deveraux when he was claiming his property. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore echoed the rhythm of his heavy breathing as he waited for your response, his body pinning yours in place like a prisoner awaiting judgment.