I brushed his hand away, trying—and failing—to hide the heat crawling up my cheeks. “Yes, it is very pretty. Just like that mask you favor. Where did you get these? They seem well-made. Are they custom?”
He guided me to face him, fingers under my chin, gentle in a way that always felt dangerous.
“I made them,” he said with a proud smile.
I blinked, speechless. He snorted. “Is it that shocking? Damn. I mean… I do stuff, you know. Besides murdering people.” He turned back to sort the rest of his arsenal.
I never imagined him as a blacksmith, yet the craftsmanship proved it—clean edges, balanced weight, the carved rose detail on the handle subtle enough to go unnoticed without a closer look.
“They’re beautiful, Cezar,” I admitted, tracing along the metal. My voice came out softer than I expected.
He stopped mid-movement, staring at me as if a compliment from me was something he wasn’t wired to handle.
“What? I’m not that terrible. I can admit things, you know,” I snapped, the irritation more embarrassing than anger.
“I love that you love them.” His intoxicating smile widened. The sincerity of it unnerved me.
I wasn’t about to confess how badly I wanted one of his blades for myself.
“So,” I asked, fingers gliding along the hilts, “what other talents do you have besides being a blacksmith and murdering people?”
“Being a creepy pervert, apparently.” He grinned like he was proud of that shit. “That’s pretty much it. I’m really not that interesting. I got into this whole thing a long time ago, and it’s been an outlet for me ever since. Calms my mind.”
I knew that feeling too well—the scramble to quiet the noise. I had never really found my place in this world either. The things I enjoyed—besides food—always slipped through my fingers. Planning destruction was the only constant I had. I lived in the details. One day, maybe I’d let myself enjoy something just for the sake of it.
Maybe.
“So, what’s in the bag?”
“Go look.” I leaned against the table and watched him approach. A white T-shirt and sweatpants—definitely not dressed for anything productive. Either he’d been lounging at home, or parked outside waiting for me to need him. My money was on the latter.
Cezar dug into the bag, pulling out one toy after another.
A muffled laugh. A grunt.
He was amused.
“I went shopping,” I announced.
“I see that. A black bag of fun,” he said, turning back toward me with a teasing spark in his eyes. “You want to play with me, Petal?”
“Don’t move.”
I walked to the table where his daggers lay in a perfect, deadly arrangement. I picked up the one with the rose—a piece of him he’d created with his own hands—and stepped in front of him.
His gaze locked onto me like he’d been waiting his whole life for this. Hunger consumed him. Pure, unfiltered want. The bulge in his sweatpants told the whole damn story. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t dare ruin the moment.
He wanted me to use it.
Starting from the bottom, I moved the dagger upward, slicing through his shirt until the fabric opened. The tip hovered dangerously close to his neck, yet he didn’t flinch. He just smiled—eager and completely unbothered by the blade threatening to mark him. I nudged his head back so I could finish, the thrill settling warm and wicked in my chest.
His eyes stayed on me, urging me forward, telling me exactly how badly he needed this. I had to look like I knew what I was doing—even if half my knowledge came from late-night research spirals that would’ve made Dorin combust on sight. I reached into the bag and pulled out what looked like a tangled heap of straps, though he knew exactly what they were meant for.
“Set this up. And take off what’s left of your shirt.”
He complied, stripping the fabric from his body and moving to the bed. He lifted each corner, sliding the ‘X’ of the restraint system beneath the mattress with ease. When he laid the cuffs out at each corner, it hit me. He clearly knew what he was doing.
Has he been tied up like this before?
