A Bride for the Desert King | Crocodile

Chapter 18: The Art of Sulking

Sineka had never considered herself the sulking type.

And yet—here she was.

Seated before her unfinished painting, she glared at the canvas as if it had personally offended her. Her brush remained motionless in her hand, the tip hovering just above the canvas, poised to strike but unable to move.

She was on the verge of losing her mind.

All because of him.

The bastard.

The smug, unbothered, utterly infuriating man that was Crocodile.

She should have been painting. The image was vivid in her mind—deep crimsons and molten gold, shadows dancing against the curves of a half-formed silhouette. But every time she tried to capture the vision, her thoughts strayed to rough hands against her skin, the rasp of breath against her ear, the dark whisper that echoed through her chest even now: Then you'd best be ready to lose.

Sineka clenched her jaw, frustration tightening her shoulders as she dipped her brush into the paint. The deep red clung to the bristles like blood. She lifted it toward the canvas—

And stopped.

Her pulse was still racing. Her skin still felt too warm. And the worst part? She could still feel the ghost of his fingers pressing into her thigh.

Damn him.

With a sharp breath, she dropped the brush onto the easel with a clack and sat back in her chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The silk of her robe slipped against her skin, barely clinging to her shoulder as she glared at the half-finished painting before her.

She was being petty. She knew that.

But for once, she had wanted to win. She had stepped into his domain, dressed in wine-red silk, every movement calculated to turn the tides in her favor—and Crocodile had undone her with a single touch. Worse, he hadn't gloated. He hadn't even acknowledged her loss. Just that knowing smirk, that damnable arrogance, as if he'd known she would break before she even crossed the threshold.

And now, she was here. Sulking.

And she had no idea how to stop.

Crocodile had seen many things in his lifetime—wars, betrayals, kingdoms rising and falling. He had mastered the art of manipulation, predicting weakness, exploiting strength, bending men to his will with the simplest pull of a thread.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

For her.

Sineka sat before her canvas, frustration written in every curve of her body. Her golden eyes narrowed in irritation, her lips pursed in a silent pout, her fingers tapping against her arm in restless defiance. The silk robe she wore clung loosely to her frame, sliding from her shoulder as if the fabric itself sought to tempt him.

She was still burning from their encounter. He could see it in the way her breath hitched too quickly, the way her thighs shifted just slightly as if trying to forget the sensation of his hand against her skin.

And damn her, she had no idea what she was doing to him.

She wasn't playing now. No calculated glances. No deliberate sways of her hips. No carefully chosen words designed to tease and provoke. She was simply Sineka—raw, unguarded, utterly unaware of the effect she had.

That made her dangerous.

Because unlike her usual performances, this wasn't an act.

And Crocodile had always preferred the genuine article.