I completely surrender to the violence of his possession. The friction ignites a white-hot, blinding fire in the center of my body. My head tosses back against the pillows, short, fractured cries escaping my lips with every impact. He knows exactly how to unravel me. The angle of his hips, the heavy, demanding pressure of his body against mine—he completely controls the agonizing, terrifying climb toward the edge.
"Thayer, please," I beg, completely lost in the delirium, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper.
"Scream for me, Sybil," he growls, entirely increasing the brutal, driving pace of his thrusts. "Let the ghosts hear exactly who you belong to."
The climax hits me like a physical explosion.
My vision completely whites out. A loud, melodic scream rips from my throat as my inner muscles spasm violently, repeatedly milking his heavy length. The sheer intensity of the orgasm completely stops my heart, a profound, agonizing pleasure that entirely consumes my consciousness.
Thayer roars my name, a dark, primal sound of absolute victory. He drives into me one final, catastrophic time, his massive body locking rigidly against mine as he pours his heavy, hot release deeply into my core.
He collapses forward, entirely burying his face in the crook of my neck, his chest heaving violently against my breasts. His heart is hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against mine, completely syncing our bodies in the aftermath of the absolute destruction we just shared.
We lie in the silence for a long time. The house is completely quiet. The ghosts are dead. The adrenaline slowly drains from my system, replaced by a heavy, lethargic exhaustion.
Thayer eventually rolls off me, groaning softly as his torn shoulder protests the movement. He pulls the heavy, musty velvet bedspread over our naked bodies, pulling me flush against his uninjured side.
I rest my head on his chest, my fingers lazily tracing the dark ink of the Syndicate tattoos wrapping around his ribs. I am entirely at peace, completely insulated in the dark, twisted world we have built for ourselves.
Then, my eyes catch sight of Bastian’s black trench coat, lying discarded on the floor near the bedroom door where Thayer had dragged him earlier.
A small, rectangular object has slipped halfway out of the inner pocket. A mobile phone.
I slowly slide out from under the heavy blanket, entirely ignoring the cold air. Thayer stirs, but the exhaustion and the blood loss are pulling him back into sleep.
I walk across the dusty floorboards. I bend down and pick up the device.
The screen is cracked, but it illuminates instantly to my touch. It is an encrypted messaging app, left open by Bastian before the shootout.
There is only one message on the screen, received less than an hour ago.
He is at the Lake County estate. He is bleeding heavily. The girl is with him. Finish it, Bastian, or the Feds will.
I stare at the digital text, the blood completely freezing in my veins.
I look at the sender’s ID. It isn't a name. It is a highly encrypted alphanumeric string. But I recognize the signature block. I recognize the routing code that Thayer’s inner circle uses.
It is Dante’s frequency.
My breathing completely stops. The absolute, paralyzing truth crashes down on me, shattering the fragile peace we just bled to secure.
The Underboss didn't secure the perimeter to buy us time.
Dante Vitiello set the trap.
CHAPTER 23 THE ARCHITECT OF ASHES POV: THAYER
The absolute absence of her heat is what wakes me.
My eyes snap open in the gloom of the cavernous bedroom. The heavy, musty velvet bedspread is tangled around my waist, but the space beside my uninjured right side is entirely empty. The mattress is cold. The scent of our frantic, violent consummation—the intoxicating blend of her slick heat, my sweat, and the sharp copper tang of fresh blood—still saturates the air, but the girl is gone.
A dark, lethal spike of adrenaline floods my system, violently cutting through the lethargy of the blood loss and the fading narcotics.
I push myself up, my left shoulder screaming in agonizing protest, the thick black sutures pulling fiercely against the torn muscle. I ignore the blinding flare of white-hot pain. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet hitting the dusty floorboards.
"Sybil," I growl, the sound a low, feral vibration in the quiet room.
I find her standing near the heavy double doors.
