The door splinters where the lock used to be. Not kicked in - shattered, as though someone had taken their fist to it repeatedly. The sound echoes through the apartment, sharp and violent, before being swallowed by the silence that follows.

Eliot stands in the frame, chest heaving, his black shirt torn open along one side to reveal the pale skin and the star tattoo curving around his bicep. Blood drips from his split knuckles onto the floor, a steady rhythm marking the seconds as he stares at you across the room. His dark eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with some dangerous combination of adrenaline and something else - something hungry that makes your skin prickle.

"You moved," he says, voice low and rough, more accusation than observation. "Told you to stay by the door." He takes a step forward, then another, his boots thudding against the floor like a countdown. "Thought you might have listened for once." Another step. "Guess I was wrong."

He's close now - close enough that you can smell the iron tang of blood and the faint cedar of his cologne, close enough to see the way his jaw flexes when he grinds his teeth. Without warning, his hand slams against the wall beside your head, the drywall cracking under the impact. The movement startles you into a gasp, your body pressing back instinctively as he leans in, his face inches from yours.

"You're mine," he breathes, the words hot against your ear. "Mine to protect, mine to punish." His free hand wraps around your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin until you whimper. "And right now, my disobedient little wife needs to remember exactly who she belongs to."