I slide the cold, flat edge of the steel beneath the thick, impossible knot of the silk laces at the top of her corset.
She freezes, completely rigid, holding whatever breath she has left.
With one swift, brutal downward motion, I drag the blade through the laces. The thick cords pop and snap, the tension completely severing.
The heavy corset instantly splits open down her spine. The sound of her violently sucking in a massive, ragged lungful of air fills the room. Her body sags, the physical relief so profound her knees buckle.
I don't let her fall. I keep my arm clamped around her waist, supporting her entirely as she gasps for breath, her back still pressed intimately against my chest. The heavy silk of the dress pools around our feet, leaving her standing in nothing but a sheer, white lace slip.
I drop the knife to the floor. It clatters loudly against the marble.
I lower my head, burying my face in the crook of her neck, my nose brushing against her damp, fragrant skin. I can feel the rapid, terrified flutter of her pulse directly against my lips.
"I am the only one who gets to take your breath away, Sybil," I whisper, my breath hot against her ear, watching the violent shiver that rips down her spine. "And I am the only one who can give it back."
I slowly turn her around to face me, my eyes dragging hungrily over the frantic rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin lace.I step closer, trapping her between my body and the glass once more.
"Now," I murmur, my gray eyes locking onto her terrified blue ones. "Take off the rest."
CHAPTER 3 THE GHOST IN THE GLASS POV: SYBIL
"Take off the rest."
The command drops into the heavy, charged air of the penthouse like a physical weight, crushing whatever fragile, newly returned breath I had managed to drag into my lungs.
I stand frozen against the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass, the freezing storm raging over the Chicago skyline pressing against the panes behind my back. But the cold outside is absolutely nothing compared to the glacial, terrifying stillness of the man caging me in.
Thayer Thorne doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach out to tear the delicate white lace of my slip, even though I know he possesses the brutal strength to rip it to shreds with a flick of his wrist. He doesn’t have to. The terrifying power dynamic between us is already cemented. He gave me back my oxygen by slicing open that torturous corset, and now, he is demanding my complete, utter submission in return.
My heart executes a violent, erratic staccato rhythm against my ribs, beating so hard I can feel the vibration echoing in my throat. I stare up into his eyes. They are a pale, fathomless gray, entirely devoid of mercy, warmth, or the frantic lust I always assumed men felt when they looked at women. Instead, he looksat me with a dark, calculating possession that makes my blood run entirely cold. He isn't asking for my body. He is demanding my surrender.
"Thayer, please," I whisper, the sound barely scraping past the tight knot of absolute terror in my throat. I hate the way my voice shakes. I hate the pathetic, broken plea slipping past my bruised lips.
"Do not beg, Sybil," he murmurs, his tone dangerously soft, wrapping around me like black velvet. He leans in a fraction of an inch closer, the overpowering scent of cedar, expensive rain-dampened wool, and raw danger invading my senses. "I told you what to do. The longer you make me wait, the less patient I become."
My hands are trembling so violently I can barely feel my own fingertips. The survival instinct that has kept me alive in Arthur Vance’s house for eighteen years screams at me to obey.Do what he says. Do not make the monster angry. Submit, survive, detach.
Slowly, agonizingly, I lift my shaking hands to the thin, delicate straps resting on my shoulders.
The silence in the penthouse is deafening, punctuated only by the heavy, rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass and the terrifyingly steady sound of Thayer’s breathing. I slide the first strap down my right shoulder. The silk whispers against my skin, a soft, mocking sound. A fresh wave of goosebumps erupts across my flesh, my body reacting violently to the sudden exposure to the cool, climate-controlled air of the room.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I cannot bear to look at him while I do this. I cannot bear to see the triumph in his dead eyes as he stripsaway the very last barrier between me and the nightmare I’ve been sold into.
You are property. You are a debt paid in flesh.My father’s cruel, acidic voice slithers through my mind, an emotional wound that bleeds fresh with every passing second.
I hook my fingers under the left strap and pull it down. The sheer white lace slip loses its anchor. It slides down my chest, catching briefly on the swell of my hips before pooling silently into a puddle of translucent white fabric over the heavy ruins of my wedding dress on the dark marble floor.
I am completely naked.
The vulnerability is a physical agony. It burns like battery acid in my veins. My breath hitches in a fractured, humiliating sob. Instinctively, my arms cross over my chest, my hands coming up to cover my breasts, my shoulders hunching forward in a desperate, primal attempt to shield myself from his gaze. A hot, stinging tear slips out from beneath my tightly closed eyelashes, tracking a scalding path down my cheek.
I wait for the touch. I wait for the rough, bruising hands that my father always promised would claim me. I wait for the inevitable violation, bracing my muscles, locking my knees to keep from collapsing under the sheer weight of my panic.
But the touch never comes.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy, wrapping around my trembling body. Seconds bleed into what feels like hours. The anticipation is a torture all its own, winding my nervous system tighter and tighter until I feel like I am going to completely snap.
"Look at me."
