Cyprian's Pov
He watched me closely. Every flinch. Every tremble.
"I'll take off the tape," he said calmly. "Don't scream. If you do, I'll put it back."
I nodded quickly.
He peeled it off in one swift motion, and I winced.
His hand hovered near my mouth for a moment, waiting to see if I'd shout.
But I didn't.
I wasn't stupid.
I inhaled. Exhaled. Let the air fill my lungs again, like a drowning man surfacing.
And then… I looked at him.
Really looked.
His jawline was sharp. His face impossibly clean-shaven. His brows didn't twitch. His breathing didn't change.
He was too close. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. Smell him in the air between us. And that scared me more than the gun he probably had tucked away somewhere under that shirt.
Because what frightened me wasn't just the possibility of pain—it was the possibility of wanting something I shouldn't.
And God, in that moment…
It wasn't pain I felt.
It was something else.
Something dangerous
"Tell me your name," Black Tiger whispered, his voice low and dangerous, yet soft enough to make my skin prickle.
I swallowed hard. Something about the way he spoke—slow, careful, deep—sent a shiver down my spine. I hated the way it made me feel. My chest was tight. My palms were cold. I didn't know whether I was terrified or something else entirely.
I looked away from him, my face hot with shame. I was disgusted with myself. Why the hell was I reacting like this? I was supposed to hate this. I was supposed to fight. Even if I was chained down, even if I had no way out, I wasn't supposed to just sit there and take it. But my body was betraying me in ways my mind couldn't control.
I was still tied to the bed. My wrists ached where the chains dug into my skin. The room smelled of leather, expensive cologne, and something heavier, darker—him. Outside, I knew the house was crawling with men who would shoot me dead without blinking. I had no chance. No real escape. But still… still I burned to move, to pull away, to not feel this heat pooling deep inside me.
I hated this. Hated him.
But I hated myself more for the way my heart wouldn't stop racing.
"You don't have to tell me your name," he murmured, almost like he could read my silence, my confusion. "I'll call you Reina then."
His eyes didn't leave mine. Those eyes—cold, sharp, silver like something not human—made me feel stripped bare. I didn't answer. I clenched my teeth and stared at the wall behind him.
Then, without warning, he slid a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs holding me to the bed. My heart thudded so hard it hurt.
"You look dead and dirty," he said, his voice a soft hum. "Let me take care of that."
I rubbed my wrists as soon as they were free, biting back the urge to flinch under his gaze. His eyes stayed on me. Heavy. Unblinking. Watching every movement I made, like he could already tell what I was thinking. I shifted slightly, my head turning as I scanned the room in silence.
The room was simple but rich. The walls were gray. The bed beneath me had silk sheets, dark as night. A door stood ajar to the side—probably a bathroom. No windows. My stomach twisted. The freedom of my hands was barely anything. Still, the moment I could move, something fluttered inside me. Hope. Or the memory of it.
I told myself I could use this. Pretend to be weak, harmless. Play fragile until I saw an opening. I prayed he wouldn't notice the way my eyes kept darting to the edges of the room, desperate for a way out.
"Cyprian," I whispered suddenly. The name came out broken, dry like gravel in my throat. I swallowed and cleared my voice, but even then it barely held.
His brows lifted slightly. "Cyprian," he repeated softly, almost tasting it on his tongue. Then he smiled—barely, faintly—and said, "I'll call you Cy."
I shivered. Not because I was cold. But because the way he said it sounded…intimate. Too familiar. Like he'd already decided something I hadn't agreed to.
His face was close. Too close. I hated how clear it was up close: the smooth, pale skin, the sharp jawline, the perfectly shaped brows. His nose was straight, almost pretty, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers, not in nightmares like this. And he smelled good. That was the worst part. Like spice and something expensive I couldn't name. My stomach flipped, not just from fear but from something I didn't want to name either.
I hated him. I hated myself more.
He reached for me again, slowly this time, and before I could react, he lifted me. Just picked me up like I weighed nothing.
"W-what are you doing?" I stammered, panic surging through me.
"Bath," he murmured, carrying me toward the open bathroom door.
My heart thudded. My stomach, still sore from when I was kicked, cramped sharply. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to scream. But my body just… froze. The heat of his hands on me, the scent of his skin so close—my mind blurred at the edges.
I clenched my fists, my face hot with anger, fear, and something else, something worse. My eyes burned. I hated how his touch lingered on my skin, how the nearness made something inside me flutter and twist. I kept telling myself it was just terror. Just the fear.
But I wasn't sure anymore.
And I hated that too.