"You don't have a choice!" I scream right back at him, my hands flying up to shove against his uninjured chest. I am not the trembling, terrified virgin anymore. I am the woman who just pointed a gun at his underboss. I am the Queen of his ashes. "You burned my life to the ground to keep me! You made me a Thorne! This is my war too!"
"You are my wife!" he snarls, his right hand shooting out, his massive fingers wrapping securely around the back of my neck. He hauls me up onto my toes, forcing me to look directly into the demonic, obsessive fire burning in his eyes. "Your only job is to stay in the cage I built for you and keep breathing! You do not walk into the line of fire!"
"If you go alone, you will die!" I sob, the absolute, paralyzing terror of losing him finally breaking through my anger. "You are bleeding. You are half-dead. They will slaughter you, Thayer, and then they will come back here for me!"
"I will never let them touch you," he whispers, his breath hot and frantic against my lips.
"Then let me protect you!" I beg, my hands sliding up from his chest to grip his jaw. My thumbs press into the rough, bruised stubble of his cheeks. "I know how his mind works. I know his tells. I am the bait, Thayer. You can't catch the rat if you don't bring the bait."
The truth of my tactical logic hits him. I can see the brutal, agonizing war raging behind his eyes. The absolute, pathological need to keep me locked in a padded room is violently clashing with the cold, undeniable reality of the mafia war. If he goes without me, Arthur Vance will release the files. The Syndicate will fall, and the Commission will hunt us both to the ends of the earth.
"If a single bullet comes within ten feet of you," Thayer growls, his grip on my neck tightening, a terrifying, possessive claim that sends a heavy wave of heat straight to my core, "I will slaughter every breathing soul in that railyard, Sybil. Including our own men."
"I know," I breathe, my eyes locked onto his.
"You don't leave my side. You don't speak to him. You stand exactly where I put you, and you let me do what I do best," he commands, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet purr.
"Kill him," I whisper, the final, corrupted remnant of my innocence completely turning to ash on my tongue. I amcondemning my own father to death, and the realization doesn't bring me horror. It brings me a profound, twisted sense of peace.
Thayer’s eyes widen slightly, the feral satisfaction of my complete corruption utterly intoxicating to him.
"With pleasure," he murmurs.
The adrenaline, the sheer terror of the impending bloodbath, and the catastrophic intimacy of our shared sins completely overload the atmosphere in the room. The space between us is no longer just air; it is a highly combustible gas waiting for a single spark.
Thayer doesn't pull away to get dressed. He doesn't step back to prepare for war.
Instead, his hand at the back of my neck flexes, pulling my face up as his mouth crashes down onto mine.
There is no hesitation this time. There is no gentle buildup. It is an act of absolute, desperate consummation. He tastes like violence and possession. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, entirely dominating me, taking exactly what he wants with the ruthless entitlement of a king.
I moan, a helpless, breathy sound that completely shatters his restraint.
He sweeps his right arm behind my knees, entirely ignoring the agonizing protest of his torn left shoulder. He lifts me off the floor, my back colliding with the pristine white wall of the medical suite. The cold tile shocks my skin, but it is instantly eradicated by the immense, furnace-like heat of his massive body pressing flush against mine.
I wrap my legs instinctively around his hips, anchoring myself to him as the room spins wildly out of control.
"Thayer," I gasp against his lips, my hands frantically unbuckling the heavy tactical belt of his pants. I am desperate for him. The paralyzing fear that he might not survive the night is a frantic, agonizing drumbeat in my head. I need to know that I am entirely his before we walk into the fire.
He helps me, his uninjured hand quickly stripping his dark boxer briefs down.
The heavy, hard ridge of his arousal springs free, pressing hot and demanding against the thin cotton of my scrub pants. He doesn't bother taking them off me. He simply grabs the waistband and rips the cheap medical fabric down the side, completely exposing my aching, slick center to the cold air for a fraction of a second before his body replaces it.
"You are mine," he snarls, his pale gray eyes burning with a dark, demonic fire as he looks down at my flushed, desperate face. "Say it."
"I am yours," I sob, digging my fingernails into his right shoulder. "Only yours."
He doesn't offer me the slow, careful preparation a virgin deserves. We are far past the realm of gentle romance. We are operating on the primal, violent edge of survival.
He positions himself at my entrance. He is massive, thick and heavy with dark, obsessive lust. He holds my hips firmly with his right hand, completely securing me against the wall, and with one brutal, unrelenting thrust, he buries himself entirely inside me.
The pain is a sharp, tearing burn that makes me cry out, my head tossing back against the white tiles. I squeeze my eyes shut, my inner muscles clamping down violently around his overwhelming intrusion.
Thayer completely freezes. A harsh, ragged groan tears from his throat as the tight, scalding velvet of my body completely envelops him. The muscles in his neck stand out like thick cords, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like bone might snap. He fights the feral, animalistic urge to move, forcing himself to remain perfectly still while my body adjusts to the catastrophic invasion.
"Sybil," he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against mine, his skin slick with a hot, feverish sweat. "Look at me."
I force my heavy, tear-filled eyes open.
