I scowl as his eyes find me. They skim over my bare legs, my significantly smaller chest, then finally settle on my face.

"Oliver," he says, not even bothering to glance at him as his eyes continue to trace over my body. "Leave."

I shift under his hard gaze, watching woefully as Oliver pushes my gun into Sinclair's hand and exits the open door.

"Any chance I can get that back?"

He tilts his head back, laughing deeply. It's more of a mockery than anything, but the warm baritone sends a shiver up my spine nonetheless. "Tonight? No chance in hell, little monster."

I sigh, watching longingly as he tucks it into the waistband of his black jeans. I have no idea what he plans to do with me now. Torture me? Fuck me? I shiver as I recall the packs of condoms stuffed messily in the cabinet only a few feet away.

Instead of approaching me as I expect him to, he strides over to the mahogany dresser in the bedroom.

He pulls out a set of metal handcuffs. Not the pink, fluffy kind. The same used for binding criminals, made of cold unbreakable steel.

I blink. "Why do you have those?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Sure you want to know the answer to that?"

I look away, cheeks burning. "Right," I mutter, "I guess the better question is what you're planning to do with them."

He gestures to the bed, staring at me expectantly.

My stomach twists as I take a few steps back, eyes training on the gun pushed temptingly into his waistband.

He senses where my mind has gone, sighing as he tugs it from his pants and lays it on the nightstand. "I'm not going to fuck you. Calm down."

"Then what the hell are those for?"

"Because you just stabbed someone with a fork. I don't want to know what you'll think of doing while we're unconscious. Now lay down."

Great—he saw all of that. Not that I should care what he thinks of me, but I can't seem to help the chagrin that burns me to my core.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my pounding heart. He raises his eyebrow, impatience growing at each passing second.

"Okay," I say, stepping forward hesitantly. The look on his face tells me he's about ready to scoop me up and deposit me under the silk sheets.

Slowly, I move past him to sit on the bed. As he moves to take my wrists, I glare at him. "I'll do it."

"No. You won't."

The scowl that consumes my face mirrors the one upon his own. "You're an ass."

Sinclair snorts, the sound devoid of humor. "And you're a brat. Now give me your hands."

I hold them out reluctantly, glaring with obvious disdain as he takes them in his grasp. His hands are surprisingly gentle and warm as they wrap around my wrists, clinking the cold metal into place. He winds the cuffs around the bars, and for a moment I think he'll let me keep one hand free until he tugs the other one into place above my head.

A chill bites at my exposed legs. "Blankets?"

Wordlessly, he grabs the black cover, pausing before he throws it over my body. His eyes linger on the exposed flesh, lips parting and features flashing with something akin to deep hunger.

Cheeks burning, I glance down. With my hands over my head, my oversized t-shirt has ridden up to the very tops of my thighs.

My stomach twists, body shifting nervously under his gaze. "Stop staring at me like you want to eat me."

"Would you rather I lie to you, little monster?" A grin so sinister that it could rival one that of Lucifer lights over his lips as he watches me sputter from his words. He's enjoying playing with me far too much. Stupid prick.

I glance over at the gun next to me. I might be able to reach it with my feet and swing it into my hands with enough effort. Having him angry over a bullet wound is easier to handle than this stupid...tempting and deliciously sinful side to him.

I nearly scream when he pushes it further from my reach. He snorts at the indignant look that flashes over my face.

"Aren't you just a little darling," he says dryly as I weakly flash him the finger from where my hands are bound. He takes the blankets and pushes them back over my legs. "Sleep."

I blink. "Sleep?"

He raises a dark brow. "I'm assuming you share the same bare necessities as the rest of us?"

When I don't respond he sighs, turning away from me to near the couch only a few feet away. Sinclair settles down on the fine leather, feet nearly hanging off the end.

"What are you doing?"

"Wishing you didn't have a mouth that runs so much." I can't see him much over the back of the couch, but the irritation in his tone makes me hesitantly press my lips together.

"Can't you sleep...somewhere else?" Having him so close makes my stomach pinch with nerves. I know I'll never be able to fall asleep in this state.

He sits up far enough so that I can see his head peek from the back of the couch as he sends me a heated glare. "You're in my bed."

I have enough sense to hold my tongue this time. At my silence, he settles back down.

Grunting with effort, I try to attempt the same. It takes some maneuvering so that I'm able to fully lay down, the thin blanket tangling around my legs in the process. It's an awkward position and I have no doubt I'll wake in an hour or two with aching muscles, but at least it's something.

His bed is comfortable. I can tell it's an expensive mattress, probably stuffed with downy feathers or something unnecessarily ornate of the same type. I know I'll never be able to afford something so exorbitant, so I suppose it's not too bad being able to try it out before my inevitable end.

At the thought, my stomach twists. Here he is, letting me bathe and dress in clean clothes, sleep in his bed. It all seems strategized, thought out.

Sinclair Black isn't a good person. There's a reason there's a price on his head, and here I am so vulnerably laid out in his hands.

I don't know what he plans to do with me, but I've no doubt it won't be anything good.

...

Something slaps me in the face. I grunt, squinting open an eyelid.

A mass of latex lays over my chest. In front of me stands Sinclair, dressed in a fresh set of black jeans and a fitted grey t-shirt, further displaying the long and detailed tattoo that crawls up the entirety of his muscled arm. I try not to stare at it too hard—out of fear my mouth might water, but also because the way the scales twitch under his skin as if taking breaths makes bile rise in my throat.

His hair is wet from the shower, slightly disheveled as if he'd run his hand through it, flowing over his shoulders in messy dark waves. "Get up."

I squint at him with groggy eyes. "Did you just throw something at me?"

"You were snoring," he says, "much like the entirety of the night."

My mouth falls open. "I don't snore."

He snorts as he reaches up to unlock the cuffs around my wrists. I wince as he tugs at them, muscles screaming from being pulled into a strange position for such a stretch of time. Groaning, I slowly tug my stiff arms back in place at my sides. They ache far too much to move, so I don't complain when Sinclair reaches down to pull the blanket off my body.

His fingers skim over my stomach. The touch burns through the thin fabric of the t-shirt, sending a pleasant shiver over my skin and a flurry of tingles in my belly.

My breath catches as I imagine how they would feel over my bare skin. The thought sends an excited jolt through my chest that I quickly push away.

Fuck. I can't afford to be lusting after this notorious crime lord who can kill me whenever the whim strikes him.

I open my mouth to snap at him, anything to erase the sensation of his fingers on my body from my mind. But I pause when I notice his eyes on my lower half, his plush lips slightly parted.

Nerves tightening my stomach, I tentatively glance down, already anticipating the sight before my eyes meet the bare flesh.

My t-shirt has ridden up in the night, pushed loosely around my abdomen. A perfect showcase for the small cotton panties that barely cover my lower half.

The ravenous look that flashes over his face is enough to make me quickly sit up and push the fabric back down to my knees, sore muscles be damned.

I'm not one to tempt a beast. As delicious as he is, I know better as to what will happen if I let him have a taste.

I turn my head away from him, letting my hair fall in front of my face so he can't see the bright shade of red consuming my skin. "Clothes," I mutter half-heartedly, barely able to form words under the mortified heat frazzling my brain. "I need actual clothes."

"Right beside you, angel," he says. I hate that I can hear the annoying self-satisfied grin in his voice. "Glad you got your beauty sleep. You'll be needing it for today."

I glance at the ball of shiny black material next to me. Upon holding it up, I realize it's a skimpy piece of clothing that's meant to resemble a dress.

"What the hell is this?" I'm not even sure if I want the answer at this point, but I ask anyway.

"Your outfit," he says, and as I turn my head I realize he's studying me as if he can already envision the thin scrap of fabric already clinging to my body. "For my party, of course. To show the city's most powerful monsters my new pet."