I took the picture myself three days ago. It is an image of Sybil standing on the pristine white sand of our private beach, bathed in the blinding, golden light of the Caribbean sun. She is wearing a sheer white silk dress, the ocean breeze pressing the fabric flush against her body, completely highlighting the undeniable, beautiful swell of her pregnant stomach. She is looking directly into the camera lens with a dark, serene, absolutely chilling smile. She doesn't look like a hostage. She looks like a goddess completely at peace in the underworld.
And resting heavily against the side of her neck, clearly visible in the high-definition print, is the massive, bruised brand of my mouth.
I sent the brother who tried to save her the absolute, undeniable proof that the sister he was looking for is entirely dead. I sent him the proof that she chose the monster, that she is carrying the monster's heir, and that she is completely, flawlessly untouchable while he rots in a cage.
It is a masterpiece of psychological warfare.
I push myself up from the heavy desk. The scars on my torso pull tightly against my skin, a physical reminder of the heavy toll, but I move with the fluid, lethal grace of a predator entirely devoid of threats.
I walk out of the study, my bare feet silent against the polished white stone floor. I move through the vast, dark living room, the moonlight casting long, jagged shadows across the modern furniture.
I reach the heavy double doors of the master suite. They are completely slid open.
The room is bathed in the soft, silver glow of the moon reflecting off the ocean. The air smells intensely of vanilla, sea salt, and the heavy, intoxicating musk of her skin.
I stop at the edge of the massive, low-profile bed.
Sybil is asleep. She is lying on her side, the sheer white linen sheets completely kicked down to her waist, entirely abandoning any defense against the warm tropical night. She is wearing nothing.
The physical transformation of her body completely paralyzes me every single time I look at her. We have been on the island for twelve weeks. The severe, hollowed-out exhaustion that haunted her features in the immediate aftermath of the war has been entirely replaced by a soft, radiant, devastating flush of health.Her collarbones are still sharp, her skin still pale, but her stomach is a beautifully rounded, undeniable curve holding the heavy, dark legacy of the Thorne Syndicate.
I stare at the swell of her womb.
The cognitive dissonance of my own existence crashes over me. I am a sociopath. I am a murderer who butchered his own father and executed her mother without a single ounce of hesitation. I am a man who views human life as entirely expendable currency.
Yet, as I look at the fragile, invisible life growing inside the woman I kidnapped, an overwhelming, feral surge of pure, unadulterated protectiveness completely suffocates the air from my lungs.
I drop to my knees beside the bed.
The movement is heavy, the solidthudof my kneecaps hitting the stone floor echoing softly in the quiet room.
I lean forward, entirely resting my forearms against the mattress. I bring my face level with her stomach. I do not touch her with my hands yet. I simply let the immense, burning heat of my breath wash over her pale skin.
Sybil stirs. The deep, heavy rhythm of her breathing shifts. Her dark, thick lashes flutter against her cheeks before slowly dragging open.
She blinks against the moonlight, her midnight-blue eyes completely dilated, hazy with sleep. She looks down, her gaze finding my massive, heavily scarred frame kneeling on the floor beside her hips.
She doesn't flinch. She doesn't pull the sheets up.
A slow, profoundly soft, incredibly beautiful smile curves her bruised lips.
"You're on the floor," she murmurs, her voice a thick, raspy whisper that sends a violent cascade of shivers directly down my spine.
"I am exactly where I belong," I answer, my voice dropping to a dark, vibrating hum of absolute worship.
I reach out with my right hand. My large, calloused palm—the hand that held the detonator, the hand that snapped Arthur Vance's neck—gently, agonizingly slowly settles over the curve of her stomach. The contrast of my dark, tattooed, scarred skin against her flawless porcelain flesh is a stark visual representation of our entire existence. The monster entirely enveloping the angel.
"He's awake," she whispers, her small hand moving down to rest directly over mine, her fingers lacing through my knuckles.
"Is he?" I breathe, my eyes completely locked onto her stomach, entire universe narrowing down to the exact spot where my hand rests.
And then, I feel it.
It is faint. A microscopic, fleeting pressure against the center of my palm. A tiny, undeniable flutter of life entirely concealed beneath her skin.
My heart completely stops. The absolute, paralyzing magnitude of the sensation entirely shatters the iron-clad, sociopathic vault of my mind.
I let out a harsh, ragged exhalation, my forehead dropping to rest directly against the mattress beside her hip. My fingerscompletely flex against her skin, entirely desperate to hold onto the sensation.
