I press my thumb against the scanner. The steel doors slide open with a quiet hum. I push her inside and step in behind her, the doors sealing shut instantly.
The ascent is rapid, a stomach-dropping shot to the top of the Chicago skyline. Sybil presses her back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, putting as much space between us as the smallmetal box allows. She is panting now, short, ragged gasps that tell me the corset is doing actual damage to her oxygen supply.
The elevator dings. The doors open directly into my home.
The penthouse is a sprawling, four-thousand-square-foot fortress of floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass, dark marble, and cold, unforgiving luxury. There are no warm colors, no soft edges. It is a sterile, impregnable vault suspended high above the city, completely isolated from the rest of the world.
"Welcome home," I say, stepping out into the foyer.
She follows me slowly, her heels clicking against the black marble. She looks around the massive, empty living space, her eyes tracking the absolute lack of exits. The realization hits her in real-time. She has traded one prison for another, but this one doesn't have a backdoor.
"Where... where is my room?" she asks, her voice trembling so violently the words blur together.
I stop walking. I turn slowly, my hands slipping into the pockets of my trousers. I study the exhausted, terrified slump of her shoulders, the way she is clutching the skirts of her dress like a shield.
"Your room?" I echo, arching a dark brow.
"Yes. I... I need to change. I need to lie down." She takes a step back, her chest heaving against the silk constraints. "Please."
"There is noyourroom, Sybil," I state methodically, watching the exact moment the hope dies in her eyes. "There is onlyourroom. You are my wife. You will sleep in my bed, you will eat at my table, and you will breathe the air I allow you to breathe."
"No," she gasps, a reflexive denial. She shakes her head, her hands flying up to grip the tight collar of her dress. "No, you can't... my father said..."
"Your father sold you to save his own miserable skin," I interrupt, my voice cracking through the room like a whip. I take a slow, deliberate step toward her. "Do not quote that dead man walking to me ever again. He has no authority here. God has no authority here. Only I do."
She backs away, her heel catching on the heavy tulle of her dress. She stumbles, her back hitting the cold, bulletproof glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. The storm rages outside, lightning flashing across the dark sky, casting her pale face in sharp, terrifying relief.
She is trapped.
I close the distance between us, my large frame completely caging her against the glass. I plant my hands on the window on either side of her head, leaning in until the scent of her vanilla and panic completely overtakes my senses.
She turns her face away, pressing her cheek against the cold glass, squeezing her eyes shut. Her chest is rising and falling in rapid, terrifying jerks. She is suffocating.
"Look at me," I command.
She doesn't move. She is frozen in a trauma response, her mind actively trying to detach from her body to escape the reality of my proximity.
"Look at me, Sybil," I repeat, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. I lift one hand from the glass, my knuckles brushing lightly against the delicate line of her jaw.
She flinches violently, a sob tearing from her throat. "Don't touch me! Please, just don't touch me!"
The raw, unadulterated terror in her scream makes a muscle tick furiously in my jaw. I drop my hand, my eyes narrowing as I observe the frantic, bruised rhythm of her pulse jumping against her collarbone. Her lips are turning a faint shade of blue. The dress is practically crushing her internal organs.
"You can't breathe," I state flatly.
"I... I can't..." she gasps, her hands clawing desperately at the heavy silk corset, trying to find a zipper or a clasp that doesn't exist. "It's laced... too tight."
"Stop fighting me, then."
I reach to my ankle, my fingers wrapping around the cold, textured grip of my tactical switchblade. I pull it loose, the metallicsnickof the blade deploying sounding exceptionally loud in the quiet penthouse.
Sybil's eyes snap open, locking onto the six inches of serrated steel gleaming in my hand. All the blood drains from her face, leaving her entirely translucent. She thinks I am going to kill her. She thinks the debt is about to be paid in blood.
"Thayer, please," she begs, the fight entirely leaving her body, replaced by a hollow, broken resignation. She flattens her hands against the glass, offering no resistance as I step into her space. "Please don't."
I don't say a word. I slide my left arm around her waist, gripping her tightly and spinning her around so her back is pressed flush against my chest. She cries out, a sharp, terrified sound, her hands flying up to grip my forearm.
I hold her still against my body, feeling the frantic, bird-like thud of her heart vibrating against my ribs. With my right hand, I bring the blade up.
