Angel Blood

5- Sweet Like A Savage

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 swallow thickly. "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 and stares 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 and sighs as he tugs it from his pants to lay 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 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. I glare at him as he moves to take my wrists. "I'll do it."

"No. You won't."

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

He grunts. "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 hunger.

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

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