But as I look at the woman lying broken and beautiful on my chest in the house where I became a king, I realize that the devil doesn't need an empire.
He only needs his prize.
Suddenly, a sound from the floor below shatters the silence.
It isn't the wind. It isn't the house settling.
It is the distinct, unmistakable sound of a floorboard creaking in the foyer.
Someone is inside the house.
My eyes snap to the door, my right hand reaching instinctively for the Glock on the floor, my pulse executing a violent, lethal leap against my throat.
They found us.
CHAPTER 22 THE GHOSTS WE FEED POV: SYBIL
The creak of the floorboard from the foyer below is not loud. It is a subtle, agonizing groan of old wood, barely audible over the relentless roar of the wind and the crashing waves of Lake Michigan against the cliffs outside.
But in the heavy, suffocating silence of the ruined mansion, it sounds like a bomb detonating.
The heavy, intoxicating haze of my climax—the blinding, scalding heat that had completely liquefied my muscles just seconds prior—evaporates instantly. The adrenaline crashes back into my bloodstream, a violent injection of battery acid that turns the blood in my veins to ice.
Thayer’s entire body goes completely rigid against mine.
The feral, obsessive lover who was worshiping my ruin vanishes in a microsecond, entirely replaced by the apex predator. He doesn't gasp. He doesn't ask if I heard it. His pale gray eyes, previously blown black with lust, snap into absolute, hyper-vigilant focus.
He rolls off my hips with terrifying, silent speed, entirely ignoring the fresh surge of dark blood that immediately stains the white bandages on his left shoulder. His right hand drops tothe dusty floorboards, his long fingers wrapping securely around the textured grip of the suppressed 9mm Glock he had set beside the mattress.
"Get dressed," he commands.
His voice is a completely soundless vibration, a breath of air shaped into words meant only for my ears.
I don't freeze. The paralyzing terror that used to dictate my existence is entirely dead, buried in the mud of the railyard. I scramble backward on the musty velvet bedspread. I grab my discarded tactical pants from the floor and aggressively shove my trembling legs into them, pulling the heavy fabric up over my hips. I snatch the heavy dark turtleneck sweater, dragging it over my head, completely covering the sheer, ruined lace of my bra.
Thayer is already on his feet. He doesn't bother looking for his ruined shirt. He stands bare-chested in the freezing, drafty room, a massive, lethal monolith of muscle, dark ink, and fresh blood. The heavy steel of the gun is an extension of his arm, aimed precisely at the heavy double doors of the master suite.
He reaches out with his left hand, his face paling as the torn muscle screams in protest, and grabs the spare Glock from the open tactical bag on the floor.
He turns to me, pressing the cold, heavy metal into my trembling hands.
"Safety is off. A round is chambered," Thayer murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine, burning with a dark, absolute certainty. "Do not step in front of me. If someone comes through that door and I drop, you empty the magazine into their face. You do not hesitate."
"I won't," I whisper, my fingers curling tightly around the grip, the heavy weight of the iron grounding me in the terrifying reality of our existence.
Thayer turns back to the door. He steps silently onto the landing, his bare feet making absolutely no sound against the thick layer of dust coating the floorboards.
I follow him, stepping perfectly into the massive shadow he casts.
The third-floor hallway is a long, cavernous tunnel of peeling wallpaper and oppressive darkness, illuminated only by the faint, gray morning light filtering through the cracked boards on the windows. The air smells heavily of rot, damp wood, and the metallic tang of impending violence.
We move toward the grand staircase.
Another floorboard groans below. It isn't the erratic, mindless movement of the wind shifting the house. It is the slow, calculated step of a predator trying to mask their approach.
Thayer reaches the top of the sweeping, curved staircase. He drops into a low crouch, using the thick, intricately carved mahogany balustrade for cover. He aims the suppressed Glock down into the cavernous shadows of the ground-floor foyer.
I kneel directly behind him, my heart hammering a frantic, bruised rhythm against my sternum. I raise my weapon, resting my forearms against the top stair, my eyes straining to pierce the gloom below.
