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 simplySineka—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.

He stood silently in the doorway, smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers as he watched her. His gaze followed the trail of her hand as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the motion unthinking yet achingly sensual. He watched the delicate curve of her throat as she tilted her head, baring the spot where his teeth had ached to leave their mark.

His eyes dipped lower, tracing the exposed line of her collarbone, the faint shimmer of her skin beneath the robe's loose neckline, the long, smooth lines of her bare legs draped over the side of the chair.

He took another slow drag of his cigar, inhaling deeply.

Thank the gods she couldn't see the thoughts running through his mind.

Didn't know how many times he'd had to stop himself from closing the distance, from pressing her back against that canvas just to see how quickly he could ruin that stubborn defiance.

Didn't know how much harder she made it to hold his patience every damn day.

And worst of all?

She wasn't even trying.

Crocodile exhaled a slow stream of smoke and smirked.

"What? No progress?"

Sineka startled, her head whipping toward him, golden eyes blazing with irritation.

He leaned lazily against the doorframe, the soft glow of the study lights catching the sharp angles of his face. His smirk was a slow, deliberate thing—carefully crafted to provoke.

Her eyes narrowed. "Did you come here just to be a nuisance?"

Crocodile chuckled and stepped further inside. "I'm simply admiring your dedication. Or rather—your lack of it."

Her shoulders stiffened, but she lifted her chin with that same defiant grace that had first caught his attention.

"Some of us don't need to rely on brute force to get what we want," she said smoothly.

Crocodile chuckled again, low and rough. "And yet, you're still here. Still sulking because you lost."

Sineka's lips parted on a sharp inhale, her fingers curling into the silk of her robe as if to steady herself. But she didn't flinch. She never did.

Crocodile stepped closer, each slow, deliberate stride swallowing the space between them until his shadow loomed over her chair. His presence was suffocating, a heat that pressed against her skin with unbearable weight.

He could see the way her breath hitched beneath the thin silk, the faint tremor in her hands, the way her pulse flickered just beneath the skin of her throat.

Still sensitive, then.

His smirk widened.

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze with that stubborn fire that never quite faded. "What do you want, Crocodile?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he stepped past her—hook trailing lazily along the edge of the easel, the faint scrape of metal against wood echoing through the room. He paused beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that the faint scent of whiskey and smoke wrapped around her like a slow, suffocating haze.

"Tell me, woman—" His voice dropped to a low purr, dark and deliberate. "How long are you going to sulk?"

Sineka swallowed hard, her fingers curling tighter against her thigh as heat pooled low and heavy in her stomach.

Damn him.

Damn the way he could unravel her with nothing but words.

Her nails pressed faint crescents into her skin as she willed her pulse to slow, her lips parting on a breath she couldn't quite catch. But she refused to look away.

She would not yield.

Crocodile smirked, eyes gleaming with slow amusement as he leaned down ever so slightly—just enough that his breath brushed against the curve of her cheek.

"Careful now," he murmured against her ear, voice rough with something dangerous. "You're starting to look like you want another lesson."

Sineka's breath hitched—

And Crocodile chuckled darkly as he straightened, stepping back with all the unhurried grace of a man who already knew he'd won.

He turned toward the door, trailing smoke behind him as he walked away.

Sineka sat frozen, pulse hammering against her ribs as she listened to his footsteps fade down the hall.

The air still smelled faintly of smoke and whiskey.

Her skin still burned from where his breath had touched it.

And the worst part?

She still couldn't paint a damn thing.