Guilty as Sin

Chapter 4 - Competent Men and Soup

The soup was good. Too good.

This meant Marcus was not just annoying but competent, which was a problem.

Cruella hated competent men. They were dangerous. They tricked you into believing in stability. That you could let your guard down and breathe easy. That they wouldn’t leave you hollowed out, gutted, staring at your own reflection in a fogged-up mirror, mouthing, What the f**k have you done?

She took another bite. Swallowed like it was a sin.

Marcus, at the stove, moved like someone who had already won. The collar of his black shirt askew. Sleeves pushed up, forearms carved from some old mythology. His presence was infuriating—because he filled a room like it belonged to him. Like she belonged to him.

Cruella scowled. “So this is your move, huh?”

Marcus barely glanced over. “Feeding you?” He sounded bored. Like it wasn’t a calculated act of violence. “Yeah. Call the cops.”

She set the spoon down too hard. “You think this makes you less of a menace?”

Marcus turned, stepping closer, and suddenly it wasn’t a kitchen anymore. It was a battlefield. His voice, silk-smooth, could have been mistaken for kindness if she didn’t know better. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “I think this makes me worse.”

And the problem was: he wasn’t wrong.

A man who tore your dress in a frenzy, who kissed you like prayer, and then cooked for you? That was not just dangerous. That was extinction-level.

She needed to put a stop to this. Right now.

Cruella hopped off the counter, squared her shoulders. She was going to say something decisive, something final.

Instead, her stomach growled.

Marcus smirked.

Cruella wanted to die. “I swear to God, Aurelius—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, handing her a bowl. “You’re going to kill me.”

She accepted it, betrayed by her own hands. The ceramic was warm. The scent of tamarind and slow-cooked pork curled around her like an embrace.

This was the real problem with Marcus. Not the way he looked at her like he was memorizing her face. Not even the way his touch still lived under her skin, like a bruise you press just to feel it.

No, the real problem was this. The way he handed her the spoon first. He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the counter, waiting to see if she’d let herself enjoy it.

She took a bite. Scowled.

Marcus chuckled, already eating, pleased with himself. He ate like a man who knew his food was good. Unhurried. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world.

She hated him.

She hated how his jaw tensed when he chewed and his throat bobbed when he swallowed. She hated how domesticthis felt—sitting in his kitchen, his shirt, the rain drumming the windows like a slow, insistent lover.

“This is unfair,” she muttered.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “What is?”

She gestured vaguely. “All of this. You being good at this. I liked it better when you were just an asshole.”

Marcus stabbed a piece of pork with his spoon, smirking. “Sweetheart, I’m still an asshole.”

She shot him a flat look. “Yeah, but now you’re an asshole who cooks.”

Marcus shrugged, utterly unbothered. “What, you think I just survive off takeout and whiskey?”

“I mean, yes.”

He snorted. “And yet, here you are, eating my food.”

“For survival,” she deadpanned.

Marcus leaned in, elbows braced on the counter. “You know,” he said, voice dangerously soft, “I could just keep feeding you.”

Cruella paused mid-bite. “Excuse me?”

Marcus’ eyes darkened, too knowing, too sure. “If this is what gets you to let your guard down.”

Her stomach tightened. Not from hunger this time.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Right. So what, you’re gonna bribe me with sinigang and see how far that gets you?”

Marcus grinned. Slow. Inevitable. “Oh, sweetheart. I think we both know exactly how far that’ll get me.”

Cruella swallowed her bite with a glare. “I hope you trip on your own ego and fall straight off this penthouse.”

Marcus didn’t even flinch. “If I fall, I’m taking you with me.”

She huffed. “Please. I’d shove you mid-air just to make sure you land first.”

He laughed, warm, deep, like he had already won.

Cruella pointedly ignored the way his shirt draped over her thighs.

The space between them shrank.

And that was the real problem.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And she wasn’t sure she wanted him to be.

Cruella sank into the sofa, curling her legs beneath her as the low hum of running water filled the air. She pretended to focus on her phone, scrolling aimlessly, but her attention kept snagging on the quiet efficiency of Marcus’s movements.

The clink of dishes, the rhythmic swish of water, the way his broad shoulders flexed beneath his shirt as he rinsed a plate. He worked with an almost irritating ease, like this was his kitchen, like he belonged here.

She should have left. She should have been anywhere but here, wrapped in this strange, domestic quiet with a man who had no business making her feel so… off-balance.

“You always let other people clean up after you?” Marcus’s voice was smooth, laced with amusement, but something else was beneath it. Something edged.

Cruella didn’t look up. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Didn’t have to.”

The water shut off, and the air grew heavier, thick with something that felt dangerous. She heard the soft scrape of a towel against ceramic, the quiet clatter of a dish being set down.

Then footsteps.

Slow. Unhurried.

She forced herself to keep her eyes on the screen but wasn’t reading a single word. Not when she could feel him standing behind the couch, close enough to smell the fresh scent of soap on his skin, the faintest trace of something darker beneath it.

Marcus leaned down, resting his forearms on the back of the sofa, and Cruella swore she could feel the heat of him seeping into her bones.

“You’re comfortable,” he murmured, his voice a lazy drawl.

It wasn’t a question.

Cruella’s lips curved. “Obviously.”

“Hmm.” He was studying her again, that same slow, knowing gaze made her want to fight and lean in simultaneously.

A beat of silence stretched between them before he tilted his head. “You ever wonder what it would be like?”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t let it show. She shifted her attention to him, arching a brow. “What what would belike?”

Marcus didn’t blink. Didn’t break eye contact.

“Giving in.”

The air in the room turned electric. A slow burn that licked at the edges of her composure.

Cruella exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. “And here I thought we were talking about dishes.”

Marcus’s mouth curved, a dangerous, knowing smirk that sent heat curling low in her stomach.

“Sure, Princess,” he murmured, pushing off the couch. “We can pretend.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving her sitting there—heart pounding, skin tingling, and the undeniable feeling that, for the first time in a long time, she was losing control.

Marcus had barely taken two steps before he stopped.

Paused.

Like he was reconsidering.

Then, slowly, he turned to face her.

Cruella should have looked away. Should have pretended she wasn’t watching him, that his words hadn’t curled around her spine like smoke, seeping into the cracks she kept carefully sealed.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she met his gaze head-on, her expression the perfect mask of indifference.

Marcus studied her, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. There was no teasing smirk this time, no amusement in his features. Just something quiet and dangerous.

Something that made her pulse stutter.

“You want to say something?” she asked, arching a brow.

Marcus didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took his time. Letting the silence stretch, let the air thicken until it felt like a living thing, pressing against her skin.

And then, in that smooth, deliberate voice of his—low and laced with something she couldn’t quite name—he said,

“I think you like playing this game, Cruella. But you forget—I’m not the kind of man who plays without winning.”

A slow, lazy smile tugged at her lips. “And here I thought we were just talking about dishes.”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something almost predatory flashing across his face.

“And here I thought you were smarter than that.”

Cruella’s breath caught.

For the first time that night, she wasn’t sure who had the upper hand.

Then, just as abruptly, Marcus exhaled, shaking his head like he was amused with himself. The tension snapped, leaving behind a whisper of something unfinished, something waiting.

And this time, when he walked away, he didn’t stop.

But the damage was already done.

Because long after he was gone, Cruella could still feel his words, lingering in the space he’d left behind.

Marcus had barely taken a few more steps when he stopped. Again.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, his grip tightening around the damp towel he held. Something flickered behind his dark eyes—something raw, something reckless.

And then, without warning, he moved.

One moment, he was across the room. The next, he was in front of her, closing the space between them like a force of nature.

“Cruella,” he murmured, almost like a warning.

She didn’t have time to respond before his hand wrapped around her wrist—firm, unyielding. Not painful, but enough to send a jolt of awareness racing up her spine.

“What the hell—”

But he didn’t let her finish.

Instead, he hauled her up—swift, effortless—and he was steering her toward his bedroom before she could blink.

“Marcus—”

He ignored her.

A slow burn of anticipation spread beneath her skin, clashing with irritation in her chest. She dug her heels in, but it didn’t matter. He was stronger, more determined, and completely in control.

The moment they crossed the threshold, he didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Straight to the en-suite bathroom.

Cruella barely had a second to process before he reached into the shower, twisted the knob, and let the cold spray burst to life.

The sound of rushing water filled the space, sharp and jarring against the silence between them all night.

Only then did he turn back to her, his grip loosening but his gaze locked on hers with a quiet intensity.

“You’re tense,” he said, his voice deceptively calm.

Cruella scoffed. “Gee, I wonder why.”

His lips curved, slow and knowing.

“Shower,” he said simply. “You’ll feel better.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You manhandled me in here just to tell me to shower?”

Marcus didn’t answer. He just took a step back, that unreadable expression still in place.

Then, with one last lingering glance, he left her standing there, chest rising and falling, heart pounding in ways she wasn’t ready to admit.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t sure if she was irritated that he left.

Or if she wanted him to stay.