Crocodile had never been a man to hesitate.
Not in war. Not in business. And certainly not when he wanted something.
So when he strode into Sineka's room that morning, cigar balanced between his fingers, expecting to find her lounging in bed or seated at her vanity, he hadn't expected to be greeted by emptiness.
Golden eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat. Smoke curled lazily from the cigar clutched between his fingers, the faint crackle of burning tobacco the only sound in the stillness. His gaze swept the room with practiced precision—the untouched sheets, the half-empty glass of water on the bedside table, the faint scent of jasmine and smoke that clung to the air, unmistakably hers.
Then—from the other side of the room—the faintest rustle of fabric.
The closet.
Crocodile moved without a sound, heavy boots near-silent against the marble floor as he approached the door and pushed it open without warning.
And then—
He went still.
For the first time in a very, very long time, something caught him completely off guard.
Sineka stood before a grand, floor-length mirror inside the walk-in closet, her back partially turned to him, hair still damp from her bath, cascading in heavy, inky waves down her spine. The faint sheen of water clung to her bronze skin, the damp strands clinging to her shoulder blades like shadows against fire-warmed silk.
But that wasn't what stopped him.
No—it was what she was wearing.
Or rather—what little she was wearing.
Black lace, delicate and sheer, clung to her curves with sinful precision. The bralette, thin enough to be utterly useless in terms of modesty, teased at the swell of her breasts beneath intricate floral patterns, as though the fabric itself had been designed to tempt and torment. Her stomach was bare, the soft curve of her waist leading down to matching lace panties, cut scandalously high on her hips, each delicate strap an invitation to be touched, gripped—devoured.
Long golden earrings dangled from her hands as if she had been selecting jewelry when he'd interrupted.
Her reflection met his gaze through the mirror—dark eyes flicking up to catch his own, framed by damp lashes and untouched skin.
She didn't gasp. Didn't shy away.
She smirked.
And that was what undid him.
Because she knew exactly what she was doing.
She knew what she looked like—knew the effect she had—and she was enjoying every second of it.
Crocodile inhaled slowly, the cigar forgotten, still smoldering between his fingers. Smoke coiled in lazy spirals against the air, the ember glowing faintly as if echoing the heat curling low in his chest.
"Are you going to keep standing there, or do you need an invitation?" Sineka murmured, smooth as silk as she turned fully to face him, owning the moment with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing exactly how much power she held.
His control snapped.
Crocodile closed the distance between them in a single stride, swift and deliberate, and before she could blink—
The golden curve of his hook slid beneath her chin, tilting her head up with deliberate pressure.
She exhaled softly, lips parting just slightly, as if daring him.
YOU ARE READING
A Bride for the Desert King | Crocodile
Fanfiction"Marry me," she commanded, almost. Crocodile narrowed his eyes at the impertinence of the woman who stood in front of him. "Ara," he heard Ms All Sunday mutter amusedly. "Who are you?" "Sineka Duskblade," she replied.
