"You are the only person on this miserable fucking earth," Thayer whispers against my lips, "who is ever allowed to touch the monster."
He doesn't wait for my response.
His mouth crashes down on mine, entirely devouring my next breath.
CHAPTER 10 THE TASTE OF RUIN POV: THAYER
There is no hesitation. No gentle, tentative exploration of boundaries.
When my mouth crashes down on hers, it is an act of absolute, unadulterated violence disguised as a kiss. It is a collision of two shattered worlds, a tectonic shift that completely obliterates whatever fragile, civilized restraint I had left in my body.
Sybil gasps against my lips, a sharp, broken sound that I immediately swallow. The taste of her is a catastrophic revelation—chamomile tea, the salt of her tears, and the dark, intoxicating metallic tang of pure, adrenaline-laced terror. It is the most addictive substance I have ever consumed.
I slide both of my hands into the heavy, dark silk of her hair, my fingers gripping the back of her skull with an iron-clad possessiveness that borders on cruelty. I angle her head precisely where I want it, locking her in place, completely eliminating any possibility of retreat. Not that she is trying to run. That is the detail that is currently shredding the last remnants of my sanity.
She isn't fighting me.
The girl who flinched at my shadow, the girl who was conditioned by her father to view physical contact as a precursor to pain, is actively leaning into the monster. Her small, trembling hands are still desperately clutching the lapels of my ruined, open dress shirt. Her fingers dig into my bare chest, her nails biting into my skin right over the heavy, frantic thud of my heart.
I groan—a low, feral vibration that rumbles deep in my chest and transfers directly into hers.
I part her lips with the bruising pressure of my own, entirely invading her mouth. She tastes like ruin. She tastes like the war I am going to wage on the entire city of Chicago just to keep her breathing. The slide of my tongue against hers sends a violent, electrical shockwave straight down my spine, pulling the blood from my brain and sending it rushing heavy and hot to my groin.
Her knees buckle slightly, her body completely overwhelmed by the sheer, dominating force of my proximity.
I don't let her fall. I wrap my left arm entirely around her waist, my massive hand splaying wide across the small of her back beneath the oversized cotton t-shirt. I haul her flush against my body, lifting her onto her toes. The soft, yielding curve of her stomach presses intimately against the rigid, heavy ridge of my arousal.
She whimpers, the sound vibrating against my tongue. A violent shudder rips through her small frame, and suddenly, her hands slide up my chest, her arms wrapping tightly around my neck. She anchors herself to me, surrendering completely to the drowning current.
It is a profound, terrifying victory.
I break the kiss, tearing my mouth from hers just far enough to drag a ragged, desperate lungful of air into my burning chest.
Sybil’s head falls back, her spine arching over my arm. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her long, dark lashes wet with tears. Her chest heaves violently, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps that echo loudly in the sterile, suffocating silence of the bunker. Her lips are swollen, bruised a deep, flushed crimson from the force of my mouth.
She looks thoroughly ravaged. Thoroughly claimed.
A dark, possessive hunger uncoils in my gut, demanding far more than just a kiss. The restraint required to keep from throwing her down onto the concrete floor and consummating this marriage right here, covered in the blood of my enemies, is a physical agony that makes the muscles in my jaw lock until my teeth grind.
But she needs to know exactly what this is. She needs to understand that I am not just taking her body; I am rewriting her entire psychological foundation.
"Look at me," I command, my voice a demonic, sleep-rough rasp that scrapes against the heavy air of the vault.
She shakes her head weakly, her face flushed with a heavy, feverish heat, completely consumed by the shame and the overwhelming sensory overload of my touch.
"Look at me, Sybil." My grip on her waist tightens, a silent, unyielding demand.
Slowly, her heavy eyelids flutter open. The midnight blue of her irises is entirely swallowed by her blown pupils. She looks up at me, entirely vulnerable, entirely exposed.
"You belong to me," I whisper, leaning down until my mouth is hovering mere millimeters from the delicate, frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. "Every fear you have. Every drop of blood in your veins. It is all mine."
I don't wait for her to agree. I open my mouth and press an open-mouthed kiss directly over her wildly beating carotid artery.
She gasps, her fingers tightening painfully in my hair.
I suck the sensitive skin into my mouth, biting down just hard enough to elicit a sharp, breathy moan from her lips, but not hard enough to break the skin. I draw a dark, bruised brand onto the pale expanse of her neck. A permanent, visual reminder to anyone who ever dares to look at her that she is the exclusive property of the Thorne Syndicate's Don.
I soothe the sting with a wet drag of my tongue, feeling the violent, involuntary shiver that cascades down her spine.
