I place my palm flat against the center of her chest, directly over her heart.
The heat of my skin against hers is an electrical shock. She gasps, a soft, fragmented sound that hits me right in the groin. I can feel the frantic, heavy thud of her heart beating wildly against my palm.
"You are racing," I murmur, my thumb brushing lightly against the lace edge of her bra.
"You're scaring me," she whispers, her eyes locked onto mine, completely unable to look away.
"Am I?" I ask, stepping half an inch closer, until the fabric of my trousers brushes against her bare knees. I slide my hand slowly up her chest, my fingers tracing the delicate column of her throat, before lightly cupping the side of her neck. "If you were truly terrified, Sybil, your body would be pulling away. Youwould be trying to slide off this counter. But you aren't moving. You are leaning into my hand."
Her breath catches. A look of profound confusion and deep-seated shame flashes across her face. She realizes I am right. Her body is betraying the fear her mind is desperately trying to cling to.
"I don't... I don't know what is wrong with me," she stammers, a hot tear springing to her eye.
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with you," I say, my voice a dark, velvet caress. "Your father taught you that power is something to be feared. He taught you that control is synonymous with pain. I am going to completely rewrite that programming, little bird."
I reach to the counter and grab a pristine white washcloth. I run it under the warm water, wringing it out.
With terrifyingly gentle precision, I bring the damp cloth to her face. I hold the back of her head with my left hand, anchoring her to me, while I use my right hand to slowly, meticulously wipe the assassin’s blood from her cheek.
She closes her eyes, completely surrendering to the movement. Her muscles finally begin to uncoil. The heavy, oppressive weight of the day's trauma seems to bleed out of her with every stroke of the warm cloth against her skin.
I wash the blood away entirely, leaving her skin pale and flawless once again. I toss the ruined washcloth into the sink.
I reach for a drawer beneath the vanity and pull out a soft, dark gray cotton t-shirt—one of mine. I guide her arms through the sleeves and pull it over her head. The shirt completely swallows her, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the neckline falling off one ofher delicate shoulders. The scent of my cedarwood and musk instantly envelops her.
She looks so small. So fragile. And yet, she is the only thing in my entire empire that possesses the power to bring me to my knees.
"Come," I say, stepping back and offering her my hand.
She slides off the marble counter. Her legs tremble slightly as they hit the floor, the adrenaline completely depleted from her system. She doesn't hesitate this time. She places her small, cold hand in mine.
I lead her out of the bathroom and across the vast expanse of the bunker toward the sleeping quarters. The bed is massive, a heavy platform of dark steel covered in thick, dark charcoal linens. There are no windows, no natural light to indicate the passing of time. It is a sensory deprivation chamber designed for absolute security.
I pull the heavy duvet back. "Get in."
She climbs onto the mattress, pulling her knees to her chest, the oversized t-shirt pooling around her. She looks around the cavernous, silent room, the reality of our complete isolation finally settling heavily onto her shoulders.
"Thayer," she says, her voice echoing slightly in the large space. "How long... how long are we going to be down here?"
I stop at the edge of the bed. I look at her, my gray eyes completely unreadable, masking the violent, paranoid calculations running through my mind.
"Until I am completely satisfied that every single threat to your life has been eradicated," I answer flatly.
"But you said it was an inside job," she presses, her fingers twisting nervously into the dark sheets. "You said someone with a keycard let him in. How can you ever know for sure?"
"I will know," I state, the absolute, chilling certainty in my voice leaving no room for doubt. "Because I am going to tear this Syndicate apart from the inside out. I am going to find the rat, and I am going to make an example of them that will echo through the Chicago underworld for the next fifty years."
I reach into my pocket and pull out my encrypted mobile device. It is vibrating silently. The only person with the clearance to route a call down to the bunker is Dante.
I answer the call, pressing the phone to my ear, my eyes never leaving Sybil's face.
"Speak," I command.
"Boss," Dante's voice is heavy, laden with a grim tension that instantly makes the muscles in my jaw lock. "We reviewed the security footage. The internal cameras were wiped, but we managed to pull a partial log from the secondary server before the rat scrubbed it."
"Give me a name."
Dante hesitates. The silence on the line is deafening. It takes a massive amount of courage for my underboss to deliver the next sentence.
