The heavy oak door slammed shut, echoing the finality of Elara’s failed escape. Her suitcase lay abandoned in the hallway, a pathetic monument to her courage. Silas moved like a predator, his shadow swallowing her small frame against the wall.
"Going somewhere, little bird?" he murmured, his voice a silk-wrapped threat.
"Let me go, Silas. I can't breathe here," she gasped, pushing against his iron-clad chest.
He caught her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. His gaze was dark, obsessive, and entirely unyielding. Before she could scream, he crashed his lips onto hers—a bruising, desperate claim that tasted of salt and possessive fury. She fought the heat rising in her blood, trapped between her hatred for him and the terrifying realization that he would never let her fly.
