Crocodile exhaled deeply, his cigar's smoke curling up in tendrils that mingled with the desert air, his gaze fixed on the enigmatic figure draped in burgundy.
An hour earlier, a manager had informed him of an unusual guest at the Rain Dinners—a woman who looked local, yet distinctly out of place. Now, as she appeared in the dimming light, it became immediately clear what the manager had meant.
While the woman's attire—a seductive mix of dark burgundy and gold—seemed tailored for the desert heat, it was the intricate details of her appearance that told a different story. Her skin, a tapestry of bronze and amber, radiated with a natural glow, as if she had been kissed by the sun itself, capturing the essence of autumn. But it wasn't just her appearance that stood out. It was the striking braid of cinnamon hair cascading down her back and the phoenix tattoo emblazoned across her shoulders that set her apart. It was an undeniable declaration of her identity—too noticeable to be hidden, too bold to ignore. Why would anyone display such a distinctive mark unless they wanted to be remembered?
As she turned, the sheer red veil that partially obscured her face did little to hide the striking beauty beneath it. Her features were soft, gracefully contoured, yet possessed a quiet strength that only heightened her allure. Almond-shaped eyes, the color of warm hazelnuts, held a depth that spoke of secrets and mysteries only the desert could contain. Long, dark lashes framed her eyes, casting delicate shadows with each flicker of her gaze. Every time she looked in his direction, it was as if her eyes were silently speaking, urging him to approach, yet not daring to make the first move.
Her lips, naturally tinted with the faintest flush, carried the suggestion of a perpetual, knowing smile. Freckles dotted her cheeks like scattered cinnamon, adding an element of charm to her otherwise commanding presence. The soft, golden glow of the dim lights only accentuated the subtle radiance of her skin, creating a contrast that made her seem as if she belonged to both the desert and the night, a being that transcended the boundaries of either.
She appeared so out of place yet so utterly at home in the desert, an impossible combination that intrigued him.
Miss All Sunday's voice broke through his silent observation, laced with amusement. "She certainly knows how to captivate," she remarked, the faintest trace of a smirk in her tone. "A desert oasis—teeming with both danger and pleasure."
Crocodile, still watching the woman, couldn't help but agree. There was a raw, untamed energy about her, as though she was both a mystery and a warning. Her innocence seemed like a mask for something far more dangerous, a trait that made her all the more enticing. If she hadn't already begun her approach, he would have taken the initiative himself. Her graceful steps, as delicate as the rustle of desert winds, held his attention in a way that was both hypnotic and demanding.
As if sensing his gaze, she shifted course at the last moment and made her way toward the bar. Her hips swayed with an almost predatory grace as she slid into place beside him, her lips curving into a subtle, almost knowing smile. The sound of her voice as she ordered her drink was like honeyed silk, smooth and deliberate, the kind of voice that hinted at more than simple conversation.
The Rain Dinners buzzed with conversation, the murmur of voices blending into a symphony of life. But in this moment, everything else faded into the background as she glanced up, her eyes meeting his once more, locking onto him with an intensity that made his pulse quicken, despite his practiced composure.
With a slight tilt of her head, she spoke, her voice smooth and dripping with the confidence of someone who was accustomed to being heard.
"Mr. 0, I presume?" she asked, her words soft yet powerful. Her voice had a resonance to it, a depth that seemed to emerge from a place far deeper than mere conversation. When she spoke, it was as though every word carried a weight, drawing attention to its hidden meaning, its hushed undertones. "Your reputation precedes you."
Crocodile's gaze remained impassive, his lips curling slightly as he acknowledged her with a subtle nod. His silence was as much a statement as any words he could offer.
She didn't wait for him to speak but instead continued, the timbre of her voice lowering as she leaned in ever so slightly. "I trust we can dispense with the formalities?" Her eyes briefly flicked to Miss All Sunday before returning to his own. "There are matters of significance that I believe require your attention. A more private space, perhaps?"
Crocodile's eyes flicked over her again, assessing, calculating. Without a word, he gave a small nod, his unspoken approval more than enough. She turned, her gown flowing behind her like a whispered promise, and led the way toward a secluded alcove away from the prying eyes of the bustling establishment.
The distance from the rest of the world seemed to amplify the tension, the once-casual murmur of the Rain Dinners now a distant hum. In the seclusion of the alcove, the woman faced him fully, the soft moonlight illuminating her features. She exhaled a slow breath, her expression one of quiet determination as she addressed him, her voice now even deeper, more commanding.
"Here, we can speak freely," she said, her gaze steady. "I trust your discretion, Mr. 0. Now, let us discuss why we are here."
Crocodile didn't respond immediately, his focus never wavering from her. Miss All Sunday hovered nearby, her curiosity piqued by the unfolding exchange.
The woman continued, her words like a slow burn. "It's rare to find a moment of privacy in a place like this," she mused. "It seems even the shadows have ears."
"Speak plainly," Crocodile replied, his voice clipped, a subtle edge of impatience creeping in. "I have little time for games."
A smirk tugged at the corners of the woman's lips, as though she enjoyed the directness of his response. "Directness is appreciated," she said, her tone shifting to one of calculation. "I've heard whispers of your interest in strategic alliances, Mr. 0. But I offer more than promises. I bring assets—real, tangible assets—and a set of skills that could prove invaluable to someone in your position."
Crocodile's expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed the faintest flicker of interest. He leaned against a nearby pillar, his posture relaxed, but every part of him was listening intently.
"I've managed thus far without such alliances," he replied dryly, his words a clear dismissal.
"True," she agreed, her smirk widening. "But surviving isn't the same as thriving. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, and even the mightiest desert can be eroded over time. You may be powerful, but even the strongest can be toppled."
Her words carried weight, and for the briefest moment, the air between them seemed thick with meaning. The woman's gaze never wavered, her confidence unshaken.
"I propose a partnership," she continued, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping even lower, "where our interests align. A mutually beneficial arrangement. And to seal this pact..." She paused, a playful glint in her eye. "I suggest a union of a more personal nature."
Crocodile's brow arched, a flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes before he masked it with his usual impassive demeanor. "Explain," he said, his voice quiet but commanding.
The woman's lips curled into a smirk, the audacity of her next words hanging in the air between them.
"Marry me, Mr. 0. A union that extends beyond mere strategy, one that would fortify both our positions in this shifting world."
The weight of her proposition hung in the air, and for a moment, all was silent. Crocodile's gaze pierced into hers, unreadable, while Miss All Sunday let out a soft, bemused "Ara." The world outside the alcove continued its noise, oblivious to the shifting power dynamics at play within its very heart.
The woman had thrown a gauntlet, and now it was up to him whether or not to pick it up.
YOU ARE READING
A Bride for the Desert King | Crocodile
Fanfiction"Marry me," she commanded, almost. Crocodile narrowed his eyes at the impertinence of the woman who stood in front of him. "Ara," he heard Ms All Sunday mutter amusedly. "Who are you?" "Sineka Duskblade," she replied.
