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."