She looks like a porcelain doll that someone has carelessly dropped. The ridiculous, exorbitant wedding gown her father forced her into is practically swallowing her alive. The corset is laced so tight her ribs barely have room to expand, pushing the pale, flawless swell of her breasts upward. Her dark hair is woven into a rigid crown, completely at odds with the wild, feral terror burning in her midnight-blue eyes.
She is staring straight ahead at the partition separating us from the driver, her chest rising and falling in quick, jagged spasms. A single, microscopic tremor vibrates through her jawline.
A dark, possessive satisfaction unfurls in the center of my chest, thick and heavy like liquid gold.Mine.The word reverberates against my ribs, an ancient, primitive drumbeat that has dictated my every move since the night I saw her standing at the top of those marble stairs.
"Breathe, Sybil," I command, my voice a low, gravelly rasp that slices through the heavy silence of the car.
She flinches. It’s a violent, full-body reaction, her shoulders jerking up toward her ears as if my words were a physical blow. Her head snaps toward me, those massive blue eyes wide and fractured with panic.
She doesn't speak. She just stares at me, her throat working as she swallows hard.
"You are going to pass out if you keep suffocating yourself like that," I say, leaning slightly toward her. "Take a deep breath."
"I'm fine," she whispers. Her voice is a fragile, broken reed, completely devoid of the aristocratic haughtiness her father tried so desperately to instill in her.
I let my eyes drop to her hands. They are folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles turning bone-white from the sheer force of her grip. The heavy platinum band I shoved onto her finger catches the dim light of the streetlamps passing by outside. It looks like a shackle. Itisa shackle.
"You are shaking, little bird," I observe softly, my gaze tracking the subtle vibration of her fingers against the white silk.
"I'm cold," she lies, her chin tilting up in a pathetic, desperate attempt at defiance.
A muscle feathers in my jaw. I appreciate the fight in her. A broken toy is no fun to play with, and Arthur Vance spent the last eighteen years trying to break her spirit, turning her into a submissive little pawn to be traded for his gambling debts. He failed. The fire is still there, buried deep beneath layers of trauma and conditioned obedience. It is my job to dig it out.
"It's seventy-two degrees in this car," I state flatly. I reach across the center console.
Instantly, she presses herself harder against the door, her breath hitching audibly. The absolute revulsion and terror in her body language send a sharp, unexpected spike of irritation through my blood. I ignore it. I am not a gentle man, and I have no intention of pretending to be one to soothe her fragile nerves.
I catch her left hand, prying her death grip apart with terrifying ease. Her skin is ice-cold, covered in a fine layer of clammy sweat. Her pulse thrashes against my thumb, frantic and wild, beating a bruised rhythm against her delicate veins.
"You aren't cold," I murmur, my thumb dragging slowly over the frantic pulse point at her wrist. "You are terrified."
"Can you blame me?" she chokes out, the words escaping before she can stop them. Her eyes widen in immediate regret, waiting for the backhand, waiting for the punishment her father would have undoubtedly delivered for such insolence.
I don't strike her. I don't raise my voice. I simply hold her wrist in an iron grip, anchoring her to me, forcing her to feel the immense, unyielding heat of my body.
"No," I reply smoothly. "I would be disappointed if you weren't. You are sitting in a locked car with the man who holds the deed to your life. Fear is the only logical response."
She squeezes her eyes shut, a single tear escaping her lashes to cut a hot, agonizing path down her pale cheek. "What do you want from me?" she whispers, the sound completely broken.
"Everything," I answer, the absolute truth of the word hanging heavily in the air between us.
The motorcade descends into the underground parking fortress of the Thorne Syndicate's headquarters. The transition from the gray daylight to the harsh, artificial fluorescent lights of the subterranean garage is jarring. The SUV comes to a smooth halt.
Before the driver even kills the engine, the doors are flanked by my men. Dante Vitiello, my underboss, pulls my door open. He offers a curt nod, his dark eyes deliberately avoiding the trembling girl in the back seat. My men know the rules. No onelooks at her. No one speaks to her. She belongs exclusively to the shadows I cast.
I slide out of the car, the cool, damp air of the garage doing nothing to temper the heat boiling in my veins. I turn back and offer my hand to Sybil.
She stares at it like it’s a loaded gun pointed at her chest.
"Sybil," I warn, my tone dropping a fraction of an octave, wrapping the threat in velvet. "Do not make me drag you out of this vehicle in front of my soldiers. It will embarrass us both."
Her jaw tightens. The instinct to survive overrides her absolute panic. Slowly, with agonizing reluctance, she places her small, trembling hand in mine.
I pull her out of the SUV. Her legs give out for a fraction of a second, the heavy weight of the dress pulling her down, but I wrap my arm securely around her waist, hauling her flush against my side. The top of her head barely reaches my collarbone. She is entirely too small, too fragile for the brutal, bloody empire I rule.
But she is mine to protect now. And mine to destroy.
I guide her toward the private, biometric elevator that leads directly to my penthouse. The silence in the garage is absolute, save for the heavy, synchronized footsteps of my enforcers taking up their positions at the perimeter.
