"I am inside you," he whispers, the dark, possessive awe in his voice completely melting the pain away, replacing it with a heavy, throbbing heat that radiates from my core to my fingertips. "You are completely full of me. You will never belong to another breathing soul."
"I don't want to," I gasp, my hips instinctively executing a shallow, trembling roll against his.
The microscopic movement completely snaps the last thread of his iron-clad control.
Thayer begins to move. He pulls back almost entirely before driving his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a heavy, wetslapof flesh against flesh that echoes violently in the sterile room.
I scream his name, the sound entirely swallowed by his mouth as he captures my lips in a bruising, punishing kiss.
The rhythm he establishes is ruthless. It is a desperate, pounding tempo designed to completely obliterate my senses, to brand my nerve endings with the absolute, undeniable proof of his claim.Every thrust drives me higher up the wall, the friction igniting a blinding, white-hot fire in the center of my body.
He knows exactly how to break me. His thumb finds the swollen, hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves between my legs, pressing down hard, matching the brutal, driving pace of his hips.
The climax hits me with the force of a freight train.
My vision completely whites out. A high, melodic scream rips from my throat as my internal muscles spasm violently, milking his thick length in rapid, scalding waves. I completely lose control of my body, my fingernails drawing blood from his right shoulder, my teeth biting down on the sensitive skin of his neck.
Thayer roars, a dark, primal sound of absolute victory. He drives into me one final, devastating time, completely burying himself to the root. His massive body goes entirely rigid against mine as he pours his release into me, a hot, heavy flood that completely seals the blood pact between us.
He stays buried inside me, his chest heaving violently against mine as the aftershocks of our climax slowly taper off. He presses a desperate, lingering kiss to my damp forehead, entirely refusing to let me slide down the wall.
"We go together," he whispers, the vow absolute.
I wrap my arms tighter around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder.
"Together," I echo.
Ten minutes later, we walk out of the medical suite.
I am dressed in a fresh pair of black tactical pants and a heavy, dark turtleneck sweater provided by Maria's replacement. Thayer has forced a clean, black button-down shirt over hisbandages, the dark fabric hiding any potential seepage from his wound. He wears a heavy, charcoal topcoat draped over his shoulders, looking entirely like the untouchable, lethal Don of Chicago.
Dante is waiting at the end of the subterranean corridor, flanked by a dozen heavily armed Syndicate killers.
Dante looks at me, stepping perfectly in sync at Thayer’s side, and dips his head in a deep, respectful nod. He does not question my presence.
"The motorcade is ready, Boss," Dante says, his voice grim. "The Commission is waiting."
Thayer reaches out, his large, calloused hand completely enveloping mine. His grip is an iron manacle, a terrifyingly possessive anchor in the center of the storm.
"Let's go kill my father-in-law," Thayer murmurs, a dark, bloodthirsty smile curving his lips.
I squeeze his hand back.
We walk into the elevator, entirely ready to burn the world to ashes.
CHAPTER 16 THE GRAVEYARD OF KINGS POV: THAYER
The armored SUV vibrates beneath us, a heavy, mechanical hum that travels straight up through my heavy combat boots and settles deep into the marrow of my bones.
I stare out the bulletproof, deeply tinted window, watching the skeletal, rusted industrial ruins of the South Side blur past in the driving rain. The storm has not relented. It continues to lash against the reinforced glass, a violent, chaotic mirror to the absolute, catastrophic inferno raging inside my own blood.
My left shoulder throbs with a sickening, rhythmic fire. The heavy doses of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated possessive rage are slowly burning off, allowing the excruciating reality of the torn muscle and severed artery to claw its way back to the surface. I can feel the tight, agonizing pull of the surgical stitches with every microscopic shift of the vehicle.
But I do not care about the pain. I welcome it. It keeps the monster wide awake.
I turn my head, my pale, glacial gray eyes cutting through the dim, blue-hued darkness of the cabin to lock onto the woman sitting beside me.
Sybil is staring straight ahead at the thick partition separating us from Dante and the driver. She is wearing the heavy, dark turtleneck sweater and the black tactical pants, her small frame practically swallowed by the dark fabrics of my world. Her dark hair is still damp, falling in loose, heavy waves over her shoulders.
