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 really have no self-preservation, do you?" he muttered, voice low, gravel-rough with something dangerous.
Sineka's smirk deepened. "If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?"
Fuck.
His free hand—his real hand—slid to her waist, fingers tracing the line of lace and skin with measured intent, finding the curve of her hip and pulling her flush against him until her back pressed against the mirrored wall, cool glass against heated skin.
Her breath hitched—soft, sharp—but her eyes burned with challenge.
Good.
He liked her defiant. Liked her taunting. Liked that she didn't break beneath the weight of his gaze.
Because it made it all the more satisfying when he finally broke her.
Crocodile's fingers trailed lower, past the edge of her bralette, over the bare strip of skin between her ribs and the delicate lace hugging her hips.
"You dress like this," he murmured, tracing the waistband of her lingerie, "and expect me to ignore it?"
Sineka let out a soft laugh—though it was shakier than before. "I was just getting dressed."
Crocodile chuckled darkly, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
"You don't wear something like this when you want to be left alone, woman."
Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips. He could feel it. Feel the heat beneath her skin—the tension coiling tighter with every brush of his hand, every whisper of breath against her throat.
She shivered.
And he felt it.
Felt her breath stutter. Felt the way her fingers clenched at the front of his coat—gripping, holding on—anticipating.
Wanting.
"Are you going to fix that sharp little mouth of yours," he murmured, lips grazing her jaw, lower, closer, "or do I need to do it for you?"
Her breath hitched as her nails dug into his shoulders through the heavy fabric of his coat. And then, in the wickedest, most sinful voice imaginable, she whispered—
"Make me."
Fucking hell.
Crocodile's restraint shattered.
His mouth crashed against hers with all the heat of a storm breaking loose—teeth, tongues, heat—his hands gripping her hips with bruising force as she arched into him, gasping into his mouth when his hook caught the lace strap of her bralette, pulling just enough to expose more skin, more sin, more temptation.
He tasted her breathless laughter, swallowed her soft, broken moans as her fingers tangled into his hair—pulling him closer, deeper, hungrier—until there was no space left between them.
This wasn't soft. This wasn't sweet.
This was devouring.
And Crocodile was finally, fucking tasting her.
His mouth dragged down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin as he bit and sucked his way down her collarbone, leaving marks that would last—because if she was going to look like this, she was going to look likehis.
Her head tipped back against the glass, a sharp gasp breaking past her lips as his hand slid lower, fingers tracing the edge of lace, teasing over silk, over skin—
"Crocodile—"
His name was barely a breath.
A desperate, ruined thing.
He smirked against her skin.
"Say it again."
Her nails dug deeper into his shoulders, eyes hazy, lips swollen from the way he had claimed her.
"Crocodile," she whispered again, breathless, undone.
He groaned against her throat, low and rough, drunk on the taste of her, the heat of her, the way she came apart beneath his hands.
And this—
This was just the beginning.
The world beyond the mirrored walls no longer existed.
There was only Crocodile—his presence, his touch, the heat of his breath against her bare skin. His hands mapped her body with slow, deliberate precision, a conqueror staking claim to the kingdom beneath his fingers. Silk and lace were no armor against him; they may as well have been ribbons waiting to be untied.
Sineka was losing—and the bastard knew it.
His fingers, rough from a lifetime of battle, slid through slick, heated softness, teasing out helpless gasps that caught in her throat. Every slow stroke dragged her closer to the edge, inch by agonizing inch. The cool glass at her back offered no refuge. Each shuddering breath fogged the mirror, reflecting her own ruin back at her.
And Crocodile saw everything.
His golden eyes, half-lidded with dark amusement, gleamed in the glass. His mouth hovered just beside her ear, breath warm against her neck, as if savoring the way she trembled against him. His hook rested lightly at her side, a reminder that even without it, he could break her with nothing more than his hands.
"You're already shaking," he murmured, voice low, rough as gravel. His fingers pressed deeper, curling slightly, dragging a sound from her throat that she barely managed to bite back.
Sineka's hands scrabbled against the mirror, nails scraping faint lines into the fogged surface as she fought to steady herself. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, hips arching instinctively into his touch no matter how she tried to resist.
"What's the matter, Sineka?" Crocodile's smirk deepened against her skin. "I thought you liked to play."
Bastard.
The word caught in her throat, never spoken. She was too breathless, too far gone to summon her usual wit. Heat coiled low in her belly, tight and insistent, pulling her toward something she both craved and feared.
She bit down on her lower lip, hard enough to sting. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg.
But Crocodile was nothing if not patient.
He drew his fingers back with agonizing slowness before sliding them forward again, stroking a spot that sent white-hot sparks down her spine. Her entire body jolted against the glass, heat pooling low and fast, too fast—
"Crocodile—"
"Be quiet." His command was soft, almost lazy, but it carried the weight of someone who was used to being obeyed. His thumb brushed lightly over her swollen clit, slow circles that made her pulse pound in her ears. "Unless you want the whole damn villa to hear you."
The warning should have cooled her blood. Instead, it made her breath hitch, her fingers clenching into fists against the glass as heat surged sharper, faster—
Knock. Knock.
Sineka froze, breath stalling in her chest.
"Boss."
Daz Bones' voice cut through the thick air from beyond the heavy wooden door. "Stussy's on the line."
For one heartbeat, Sineka thought Crocodile might step away.
But he didn't.
Instead, his fingers pressed deeper, curling slightly, dragging against that maddening spot that made her toes curl against the marble floor. She barely swallowed the choked sound that tried to tear from her throat.
Goddamn him.
"I'll be out in a minute," Crocodile called, perfectly calm, perfectly composed—as if he wasn't currently driving her to the brink of ruin.
A pause. Then footsteps retreating down the hall.
Sineka exhaled a shaky breath of relief—only to gasp sharply when his hand resumed its slow, merciless rhythm.
"Did you think I'd stop?" Crocodile's voice was pure amusement, dark and smug. His hand tightened on her hip, holding her steady against the mirror. "You're not getting off that easy, woman."
Sineka squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to hold herself together. "Y-You—"
"Pathetic," he murmured against her neck. "So smug this morning. And now? Already falling apart. So fast. Like a desperate little thing."
She wanted to snarl something sharp, something cutting—
But she couldn't.
Because she was too close.
Too far gone to pull herself back.
Her hips moved of their own accord, rolling into his hand with slow, helpless desperation, chasing the heat building low in her belly. Crocodile felt it, saw it, knew it—
And he chuckled against her ear.
"Come for me, Sineka."
The command shattered her.
Her back arched against the glass, a sharp cry muffled behind her clenched teeth as pleasure crashed over her in hot, shuddering waves. She clung to the mirror as if it could ground her, nails leaving faint crescents against the fogged surface. The world spun, breathless and electric, until all she could hear was the rapid pound of her heartbeat and the ragged hitch of her breath.
Crocodile held her through it, his hand guiding her through every pulse of pleasure until she finally sagged against the mirror, boneless and wrecked.
Only then did he withdraw his hand, sliding it slowly down her thigh as if to savor her final shudder. His touch left faint trails of slickness against her skin, a deliberate reminder of what he'd done to her.
Sineka swallowed hard, struggling to steady her breath as her reflection slowly came back into focus. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her bare skin still damp with heat. The lace bralette clung askew against her chest, one strap still dangling from the edge of his hook.
And Crocodile—
Still fully dressed.
Still perfectly composed.
Except for his eyes.
Golden and dark, glinting with hunger, with satisfaction, with the promise that this was only the beginning.
Sineka's pulse pounded beneath her skin as he slowly lifted his fingers to his mouth—
And tasted her.
Her breath caught in her throat, eyes widening with equal parts shock and mortification as he smirked against his fingers, utterly unrepentant.
"You bastard," she managed, though her voice was more breathless than sharp.
Crocodile chuckled low in his chest, the sound as rich and dark as aged whiskey. Adjusting the collar of his coat, he stepped back with a final glance at her reflection—still flushed, still breathless, still ruined against the mirror.
"Get dressed," he said simply, turning toward the door. "I'll deal with you later."
The unspoken promise sent a fresh shiver down her spine, but Sineka forced herself to straighten, meeting his gaze through the glass with the faintest glimmer of defiance.
"Next time," she said, voice still a little unsteady but regaining its edge, "try lasting longer before you lose control."
Crocodile paused with his hand on the door, golden eyes gleaming with dark amusement—and something sharper.
"Careful what you wish for, woman."
And then he was gone, leaving only the faint trace of smoke and leather in his wake.
Sineka closed her eyes, steadying her breath as the faint heat of pleasure faded, leaving something heavier in its place.
Because this wasn't just lust.
This was power.
And whether she liked it or not, Crocodile had just proven that, in this game of control—
She was already losing.