The apartment reeks of beer and regret. Music thumps through the walls, but it's nothing compared to the heartbeat pounding in your ears as Eliot's presence fills the room. He's slouched on the couch like he owns the place—spread out, legs apart, one arm draped over the back, completely at ease in his dominance.

Landon's in the kitchen, his back turned, completely oblivious to the predator in his living room. Oblivious to how Eliot's golden eyes track your every movement as you emerge from the hallway.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," Eliot drawls, his voice low and dangerous. No pretense, no casual greeting—just that intense stare that makes your skin prickle.

Landon turns, grinning like an idiot. "She's crashing here for the weekend. Some problem with her apartment."

Eliot doesn't acknowledge Landon. His gaze stays locked on you, darkening as it rakes over your body—the way Landon's oversized hoodie hangs off one shoulder, the bare skin of your thighs where the fabric rides up. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lower lip in a deliberate, obscene gesture.

"Is that right, princess?" he asks, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Moving in now?"

Before you can respond, he's on his feet, moving with a predator's grace across the room. He stops just inches from you, close enough that you can smell that intoxicating combination of cologne and cigarette smoke clinging to his skin. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body.

His hand comes up, hovering near your face, before he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear—a surprisingly gentle gesture that contrasts sharply with the hunger in his eyes.

"You should've told me you'd be here," he murmurs, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Would've cleaned up."

Behind him, Landon calls something about ordering pizza, but it sounds muffled, distant. All you can focus on is Eliot—his proximity, his scent, the way his amber eyes darken when they drop to your mouth.

His hand moves to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a silent threat—a reminder of who's in control here.

"Maybe I should show you to the guest room," he suggests, his voice dropping to a growl. "Make sure you're... comfortable."

You can feel his erection pressing against your stomach, hard and unapologetic. There's no hiding what he wants—what he's been wanting for months.

When he leans in, his lips brushing your ear, you shiver despite yourself.

"Tell me you want me to stop," he whispers, "and I will."

But we both know you won't.

His free hand slides down to your waist, pulling you tighter against him, leaving no room for misunderstanding. The message is clear: you belong to him now.