She shivers violently as the cool air hits her bare skin, her arms coming up to cross defensively over her chest.
I guide her under the stream of the hot water. The moment the heat hits her rigid, trembling muscles, a long, shuddering sigh escapes her lips. Her head drops back, her dark hair instantly matting to her pale shoulders, the water washing away the residual sweat, fear, and exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours.
I take a heavy, dark washcloth, lathering it with the cedarwood and amber soap I use.
"Turn around," I command softly.
She obeys, turning her back to me.
The moment I see her spine, all the air completely vanishes from my lungs.
My knuckles turn bone-white around the washcloth. A dark, murderous roaring fills my ears, completely drowning out the sound of the cascading water.
Running down the left side of her ribs, pale and slightly faded but entirely unmistakable, are the thin, jagged scars of a leather belt. There are older, fainter bruises blooming like dark watercolor across her shoulder blades. The physical map of Arthur Vance’s discipline.
The violence that erupts in my chest is catastrophic. It takes every single ounce of my iron-clad self-control not to punch my fist straight through the reinforced glass of the shower wall.
I will skin him alive. I will make him eat his own fingers.
"Thayer?" she whispers, her voice trembling, feeling the sudden, lethal shift in the energy of the room. She tries to turn her head to look at me, her body instinctively bracing for a blow.
"Do not move," I manage to grind out, my voice thick with a rage so profound it physically hurts.
I force myself to breathe. I force the monster back down into the dark, locking the cage door before it can terrify her.
With agonizing slowness, I bring the hot, soapy washcloth to her skin. I do not touch the scars with anything less than absolute, agonizing reverence. I wash her back, the warm water cascading over my hands, tracing the delicate, abused lines of her ribs.
She tenses at the first point of contact, her breath hitching, waiting for the pain. But when the pain doesn't come—when there is only the firm, soothing heat of the cloth and the terrifyingly gentle pressure of my large hands—she slowly, miraculously begins to relax.
Her muscles uncoil. Her head drops forward, exposing the delicate nape of her neck.
I wash her hair, my fingers massaging the heavy tension from her scalp. I wash the remnants of her father's toxic world from her skin, replacing the scent of her fear with the dark, heavy musk of my cedar and amber. I am completely marking her. I am branding her senses with my presence, ensuring that when she breathes, she smells only me.
When we are finished, I wrap her in a massive, heated black towel. I carry her back into the bedroom, completely ignoring her weak protests that she can walk.
Maria has left a silver tray on the small table by the window. I sit Sybil on the edge of the massive, dark gray bed and hand her the warm bowl of clear broth.
"Eat," I command.
She doesn't argue this time. She is too tired to fight the current. She slowly drinks the broth, her eyes drooping heavily with every passing second. When she is finished, I take the bowl from her trembling hands.
She slides under the heavy duvet, curling into a tight ball on the far right side of the mattress. Within exactly three minutes, the deep, even rhythm of her breathing tells me she has fallen into a completely dreamless, exhausted sleep.
I stand at the edge of the bed for a long time, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
The possessive obsession that has ruled my life for six years has mutated. It is no longer just a desire to own her. It is a pathological, violent need to completely insulate her from a world that has only ever caused her pain. I will build walls of bone and rivers of blood around this compound if that is what it takes to keep her breathing.
I turn and walk out of the master suite, the heavy doors locking automatically with a solid, definitiveclickbehind me.
I descend the sweeping staircase, the gentle, obsessive caretaker completely vanishing with every step I take toward the ground floor. By the time I reach the massive, soundproof war room inthe subterranean level of the estate, I am entirely the monster she fears.
Dante is waiting at the center of the dark mahogany conference table. The room is a high-tech nerve center, the walls lined with encrypted monitors displaying satellite feeds, surveillance footage, and the agonizingly slow dismantling of Arthur Vance’s remaining operations.
"Boss," Dante says, standing up as I enter. He gestures to the central screen. "The west side warehouse is a total loss. Four million in weapons, up in smoke. But we caught a break."
I walk to the head of the table, my eyes completely dead, my pulse resting at a cool, even sixty beats per minute. "Speak."
"Arthur Vance didn't just flee," Dante reports, sliding a heavy, encrypted file folder across the table toward me. "He made a deal before he got on that plane. He sold the information about our supply routes."
