I take his right hand. I hold his thick wrist with my left hand, and with my right, I bring the hot, damp towel to his ruined knuckles.
I am inverting the exact ritual he performed for me hours ago.
I press the hot fabric against his split skin. Thayer’s breath hitches—a sharp, ragged sound that completely shatters the silence of the room. His large fingers twitch, instinctively curling slightly, but he forces his hand to remain open, completely surrendering to my touch.
I methodically wipe the blood from his knuckles. The water turns pink, staining the pristine white towel. I trace the heavy, dark lines of the Syndicate tattoos wrapping around his forearm, washing away the violence of the day, leaving only the heat of his skin beneath my trembling fingers.
The intimacy of the act is suffocating. It is far more terrifying, far more dangerous than the violence I witnessed on the monitor.
"Why are you doing this?" Thayer asks, his voice dropping into a dark, vibrating hum that sends a violent shiver racing down my spine.
I don't look up. I focus entirely on the slow, deliberate movement of the towel across his skin. "Because you are covered in blood."
"It isn't my blood, Sybil," he murmurs, his left hand coming up to rest lightly on my waist, his long fingers pressing into the fabric of the oversized t-shirt. The heat of his touch sears straight through the cotton.
"I know," I whisper, my voice completely breathless.
I finish his right hand and move to his left. I repeat the process, washing away the evidence of his wrath, my thumb gently tracing the heavy, calloused pad of his palm.
When both of his hands are clean, I don't step away.
I drop the ruined towel into the sink. I reach up, my trembling fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before I begin to undo the small, pearl buttons of his ruined white dress shirt.
Thayer’s entire body goes completely rigid. The hand resting on my waist tightens, his fingers digging possessively into my hip.
I slip the first button through the hole. Then the second. I part the crisp, blood-stained fabric, exposing the heavy, tightly coiled muscles of his chest. His skin is incredibly hot, his heart thudding with a heavy, violent rhythm that perfectly matches my own.
I take a fresh, damp washcloth from the counter. I press it gently to the center of his chest, wiping away the smudges of crimson that had soaked through the fabric.
Thayer cannot take it anymore.
The iron-clad control he has maintained completely snaps.
His hands shoot out. He grips my waist with bone-crushing force, hauling me completely flush against his chest. I gasp, the breath knocked entirely out of my lungs as my soft curves collide with the unyielding, muscular wall of his body.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his hot breath washing over my sensitive skin, making a violent cascade of shivers erupt down my spine.
"You are going to completely destroy me," he groans, the sound completely raw, a feral admission of absolute defeat.
His lips brush against the pulse point frantically beating at the base of my throat. The touch is a violent electrical shock. It isn't a gentle, comforting caress. It is the desperate, hungry touch of a starving man who has finally been given a taste of a feast.
My hands fly up, completely instinctual, my fingers threading into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck. I grip him tightly, anchoring myself to him as the room spins wildly out of control.
Thayer lifts his head. His gray eyes are entirely black now, entirely consumed by the dark, primal lust that has been simmering beneath the surface since the moment he saw me at the top of those stairs six years ago.
He slides one hand up my back, his long fingers tangling in my hair, holding the back of my head in an inescapable, iron grip. His other hand drops low, his large palm gripping the back of my thigh through the thin cotton of the t-shirt, lifting my leg and pulling it flush against his hip, completely trapping me in the vee of his spread legs.
The sheer physical dominance of the posture leaves absolutely no room for negotiation.
"Thayer," I gasp, my chest heaving against his.
"Do you fear me, Sybil?" he murmurs, his face hovering mere millimeters from mine, his gaze dropping to my parted, trembling lips.
"Yes," I whisper, the absolute truth tumbling from my mouth.
"Good," he growls, his velvet voice a lethal promise. "Fear me. Hate me. Let it consume you. But know this, little bird..."
His hand on my thigh tightens, pulling me impossibly closer, completely aligning the aching, desperate center of my body against the heavy, hard ridge of his arousal. I let out a soft, broken whimper, my eyes fluttering shut as a wave of intense, terrifying heat floods between my legs.
