I turn slowly, taking a sip of the burning scotch.
Sybil steps into the dim light of the bedroom. She is wearing the midnight-blue silk pajamas I imported from Paris. They are entirely modest—long sleeves, pants that pool slightly over her bare feet—yet the way the expensive fabric clings to the subtle curves of her hips and the terrified rise and fall of her chest does more to shred my control than if she had walked out completely naked.
She stands near the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist in a defensive posture, her dark hair combed out and falling like a heavy curtain of ink down her back.
"Sit," I say, nodding toward the small, circular dining table positioned near the windows.
A silver cart had been delivered via the private service elevator while she was in the shower. I cross the room and lift the heavy silver cloches, exposing two plates of steaming, medium-rare steak, roasted vegetables, and a delicate porcelain bowl of hot, clear broth.
She doesn't move. She stares at the food as if it is laced with cyanide.
"I'm not hungry," she whispers, her gaze dropping to the floor.
I set my glass down with a sharpclackthat makes her jump. "You haven't eaten a full meal in three days, Sybil. The corset restricted your caloric intake, and your father locked you in your room to ensure you didn't look bloated for the dress fitting."
Her head snaps up, absolute horror dawning in her blue eyes. "How... how do you know that?"
"I know everything," I reply methodically. I pull out one of the dark velvet dining chairs. "I also know that when your anxiety spikes, your throat closes up and you refuse solid food. Which is why there is broth. Sit down and eat."
"I can't," she chokes out, taking a step backward toward the bathroom. "Please. I just want to sleep."
"I am not asking, Sybil." My voice drops into the lethal, gravelly register that makes grown men in the Syndicate drop to their knees and beg for their lives. "If you do not sit down and consume those calories right now, I will sit you on my lap and force-feed you myself. Do not test me tonight. My patience is entirely exhausted."
The threat registers. The survival instinct overrides the panic. Her shoulders slump in defeat, a physical manifestation of her broken will. She walks slowly across the room, her movements stiff and jerky, and sinks into the chair I pulled out for her.
I take the seat opposite her. I pick up my knife and fork and begin to eat, perfectly composed, while I watch her trembling fingers reach for the silver spoon.
She dips the spoon into the hot broth and brings it to her lips. Her hand is shaking so badly that a few drops spill back intothe bowl. She swallows, her throat working hard, her eyes fixed entirely on the dark mahogany surface of the table.
We eat in total, suffocating silence. The only sounds in the penthouse are the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass, the scrape of silverware, and the jagged, nervous cadence of her breathing. I watch the slow, agonizing process of her forcing down half the bowl of soup and a few bites of vegetables. When she finally drops the fork, her face is pale and entirely exhausted.
"I'm done," she whispers, her voice completely hollow.
I assess her plate, then her face. The dark circles under her eyes look like bruises against her translucent skin. She is running on fumes and sheer terror.
"Go to bed," I order softly.
She stands up so quickly her chair scrapes violently against the floor. She practically runs toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the room. She climbs onto the mattress, keeping as far to the right edge as physically possible, and pulls the heavy dark gray duvet all the way up to her chin. She turns her back to the room, curling into a tight, defensive ball, making herself as small as she possibly can.
I finish my scotch, turn off the dim lamps, and strip.
The sound of my belt buckle hitting the floor makes her flinch violently under the covers. She thinks this is it. She thinks the food and the quiet were just the prelude to the violence her father always promised her marriage would entail.
I leave my trousers and shirt on the chair, wearing nothing but dark boxer briefs. The air in the room is cool, but my body runsincredibly hot, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer proximity of my obsession.
I walk to the left side of the bed and pull back the duvet. The mattress dips significantly under my heavy weight.
Sybil stops breathing. I can hear the absolute silence in her lungs. She is waiting for the hands. She is waiting for the pain.
I slide beneath the covers and lie flat on my back, my hands resting behind my head. The distance between us on the massive California King is significant, at least three feet of empty mattress, but the energetic charge in the space is catastrophic.
"Breathe, Sybil," I command quietly into the darkness. "Or you will pass out."
She exhales in a ragged, terrifyingly shaky breath, but she doesn't uncurl from her fetal position.
I close my eyes, letting the sound of the rain and the scent of her vanilla wash over me. I do not touch her. The withholding is intentional. I want her to lie awake in the dark, anticipating a violation that never comes. I want to shatter every preconceived notion she has about what kind of monster I am.
Hours bleed into the night. The storm outside intensifies, the thunder shaking the reinforced glass of the penthouse.
