Sinclair manages to rush me up the stairs before I kick myself out of his arms, still clutching the bottle of vodka to my chest as acid rises in my throat.

I puke. Everywhere.

I make it to the bathroom, which is a slight relief, but the result of a night of swigging sips of vodka spills from my throat and coats the vinyl dress and the shiny tile floor in front of the toilet.

Sinclair's heavy footsteps approach and I scramble to kick the door shut.

"Don't come in." I gasp as another wave of nausea hits and I double-over into the toilet, choking on bile and the remains of food in my stomach.

His heavy sigh tells me he's come in anyway. It doesn't surprise me. I don't know why I even bother trying to warn him off when the man has the listening ability of a toddler.

I groan, resting my forehead on the porcelain my stomach clenches painfully. Gentle hands scoop the hair out of my face as I bend back into the bowl.

He's patient as I expel the alcohol from my system. Quiet as I curse every horrid word known to man between heaves.

After minutes of retching, my stomach settles a notch. I sit back on my heels, glancing up at him as he wordlessly hands me toilet paper to wipe my mouth with.

"Thanks," I whisper, dabbing my face as I avoid looking into his disapproving gaze.

He raises a dark brow. "You done?"

Wincing, I push the bottle away from me so it clanks noisily against the wall. "I think so." The emptiness of my hands alarms me. Something itches in my sluggish mind—a missing piece I can't seem to muster.

Then it clicks. "My gun." And just when I got her back. I sigh in frustration, fingers curling at her absence.

Sinclair sighs heavily, rolling his stormy eyes. "You and that damn gun. Where did you put it?"

My eyebrows scrunch together as I search my mind. The night blends with alcohol and conversations with nameless men. "Um. Somewhere down at the bar?"

"Oliver?"

I don't realize he's approached to watch the freak show until his deep voice comes from the doorway. He nods, spinning on his heels. "On it."

The silence stretches between us at his departure. I wince at the mess I've made, shifting uncomfortably at the evidence that covers my body. "I need a shower."

He hums in agreement, eyes strangely intense on mine as he steps back so that I can rise from where I crouch on the floor.

I cringe as I raise myself with knees as weak as a newborn deer. I hobble on my feet, gasping as Sinclair's warm hands grasp my arms to catch me.

A steadying breath shudders past my lips as I brush away his hands. "Thanks."

"Turn around." His eyes are too intense as they stare into mine, face so serious that it makes a knot form in my stomach.

My brow furrows. "What?"

"Turn. Around."

Silently, I spin so he faces my back. Gentle fingers brush my hair over my shoulder and grip the zipper between my shoulder blades.

I stiffen. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you undress."

The breath whooshes from my stomach. If everything wasn't spinning, I'd turn around and plant my foot in his groin. "The fuck you're not."

"You can barely stand on your own two feet," he says, coldness brushing my skin as he unzips the black vinyl fabric. "So yes, I am."

"Has anyone told you that you're extraordinarily terrible at listening?"

"No." He slides the tight fit down my torso, bearing the full length of my back to his eyes. "I'm sure it's because they'd prefer to keep their tongues. But they probably think it quite often."

I snort, the lingering alcohol sending words through my mouth before I have a chance to reconsider. "You going to cut my tongue out?"

He pauses as the dress catches my hips, revealing the top of the lacy white thong he'd given me to wear with it. "No."

"How come?"

"I like your tongue, as irritating as it is." He continues to tug until it pools in a mass of fabric at my feet, following suit with the scrap of lace and leaving me achingly vulnerable in front of his roaming eyes. A small gasp escapes from my throat as his hands settle over my waist, burning over my flesh as they urge me to step into the shower. "And I find that occasionally it makes the sweetest noises."

A strange tightness festers in my chest, my stomach bubbling with terrified delight. I can feel his eyes skim over my body, hot over my bared ass and the expanse of my back. I swallow, skin prickling from the weight of his words as I cup my arm over my chest and step into the tub.

My throat is tight as I keep my back carefully poised at him, my heart pattering noisily in my chest. "Thank you. For the help." I clear my throat, attempting to alleviate the fevered pressure to no avail.

His hands leave a trail of fire over my skin as they skim down my waist, cupping the widest part of my hips. I shiver at the cold silence that stretches between us, desire tightening his fingers around the pale flesh.

I should be smacking his hands away. The alcohol has to be the culprit behind my undoing. There's no way I could want this in my right mind. Right?

I let him trail his hand down, letting loose an impatient breath as his fingers skim around my ass.

"This is the part where you're supposed to stop me," he murmurs, a gentle hand cupping the swell.

My tongue weighs heavily in my mouth as I let the silence stretch between us. Let his warm hands knead over the thickness.

"Fuck," he rasps. "This kills me."

Words feel wrong in my throat but I push them out anyway. "What?"

"This." I yelp as he smacks his palm over me, feel his eyes memorize the rosy shape of his hand that raises to the surface.

His voice is heavy with longing as he speaks again. "Turn on the water, angel."

I'm so transfixed by the weight of his hands on me that I barely understand the words. "Huh?"

"The water." I nearly sigh at the loss of his touch when he gently pushes me under where the stream will emerge.

I don't move. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because you're drunk and you're definitely going to try and put a bullet in my head for that tomorrow." I make no attempt to follow his orders so he leans forward and does it himself, turning the water to a pleasantly warm temperature before he pulls the notch that redirects the flow to the showerhead.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding as he closes the shower curtain. Water soaks over my body, doing nothing to calm the festering heat that thrums through my blood. A part of me wants to invite him in. To ask him to put his hands back on the skin that seems so bare without his touch.

I sigh, doing my best to push the thoughts from my head as I reach for his shampoo and squeeze out a generous glob into my hands and lather it into my hair. The pleasant scent of musky cedar fills my senses as I scrub the evidence from the night off my skin.

Once I've finished, I shut the water off, startling as Sinclair pushes a towel past the shower curtain.

"Thanks," I murmur, taking the fluffy white linen from his hands. My brow knits. He's being strangely considerate in all the ways I'd never expect.

After I've patted myself dry and wrung the excess water from my hair, I hesitantly ask, "Clothes?"

He pushes in another t-shirt. It's a black one this time, as large as the last one. A fresh wave of cedar hits my nose as I pull it over my head, pink creeping over my cheeks as I realize who it belongs to.

He doesn't push any underwear into the shower and wearing the same ones I'd been sporting all night seems gross so I don't ask. I can already imagine that wicked grin curling over his lips at the mention. God help me, I'm not in the right mindset to resist it tonight.

I wince as I push the shower curtain open. The floor is trashed with the mess I've made.

"I'll clean this up," I murmur, prepared to climb out of the tub and start scrubbing.

He shakes his head, gently grabbing my arm as he leads me out of the tub. I'm still wobbly on my feet and the touch stabilizes me. "I'll have someone take care of it. You need to sleep."

He leads me into the bedroom, lowering me to the bed as if I'm made of glass. Sinclair reaches to the end table and pulls the handcuffs into his hands, rolling his eyes at the scowl that forms on my face.

"Take it as a compliment," he says as he snaps my hands into place above my head. I make sure I'm properly tucked under the blankets so he can't see the skin bared from the action. "You and I both know what you're capable of."

I stiffen as he strides out of eyesight, the mattress dipping under his weight indicating he's climbed on the other side of the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't aspirate on your own vomit." His body settles behind mine. Not touching, but so close I can feel the heat of him radiate into the back of my thin t-shirt.

Words ache to spill from my mouth but he interrupts me before they get a chance to fall out. "Don't argue with me. You're not in a position to and I won't hesitate to take away your gun."

I bite my tongue, fire brewing in my gut. If my hands weren't bound, they'd find good use around his neck.

Instead, I lift my head to glare at him over my shoulder. I'm tempted to tell him what a piece of shit he is, but something inside my chest softens at the sight of him sprawled behind me.

His dark hair spills onto the pillow, threatening to sweep into his eyes. His eyes are tense as they regard me, his jaw clenched as he meets my angry gaze with his own.

Something about this feels so...intimate. His urge to control my every action might piss me the hell off, but it's almost as if there's a twisted kindness behind it.

A sigh passes through my lips, my brows knitting at the thought. I need to remind myself it's all for his personal gain. That he only cares that I might die because he wouldn't be able to tote me around like a newly won trophy.

As if he can sense where my thoughts wander, his eyes narrow on mine. "Stop looking at me like that."

My breath stills in my throat. "Like what?"

"Like I'm a good man." My heart shudders in my chest as he reaches forward and drags a finger over my bottom lip. "If you think I'm any better than a man like Arlo, you're mistaken. The only reason why he hasn't taken you from me is because he knows what I'm capable of when I'm not happy." My breath stalls as his hands trail down to grasp my jaw, his nail catching my skin as he tugs my face closer to his. A small droplet of blood wells around his finger and rolls down my chin. "I'm the deadliest thing this city's seen in years, angel. If you're smart, you won't forget it."