His voice is different this time. The lethal, commanding edge is still there, but beneath it is a dark, vibrating hum of something ancient and feral.
I force my eyes open, the heavy lashes wet with unshed tears.
Thayer’s gaze is slowly, methodically tracking every inch of my exposed skin. He isn't rushing. He catalogues the sharp jut of my collarbones, the frantic, terrified pulse beating wildly in the hollow of my throat, the slight, involuntary shiver wracking my ribs, and the pale, unbroken line of my legs.
When his eyes finally rise to meet mine, the dead, icy gray has fractured. A dark, ruinous fire burns in their depths, a hunger so profound and deeply possessive it makes the breath completely vanish from my lungs.
He doesn't reach for my body. Instead, he reaches up and slowly, deliberately, brushes the stray tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. His skin is rough, heavily calloused from years of violence, yet the touch is terrifyingly precise. It is a ghost of a touch, sending a violent electrical shockwave straight down my spine.
"You belong to me now," he whispers, his thumb tracing the curve of my jawline, ignoring my violent flinch. "Every breath you take, every frantic heartbeat, every tear you shed. It is all mine, Sybil. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I choke out, because it is the only answer he will accept.
He studies my face for a long, heavy moment. Then, with a sudden, fluid grace that seems entirely unnatural for a man of his size, he steps back, breaking the suffocating cage of his body. The sudden absence of his immense heat leaves me shivering violently against the glass.
Thayer turns and walks toward a massive, dark velvet sofa in the center of the living room. He picks up a heavy, charcoal-gray cashmere throw blanket that was draped over the backrest. He returns to me, his footsteps completely silent on the marble floor.
He snaps the blanket open and drapes it over my trembling shoulders, pulling the thick, incredibly soft fabric tight across my chest, effectively swathing me from the neck down.
I stare at him, entirely thrown off balance. My brain short-circuits, completely unable to process the whiplash between his ruthless psychological dominance and this sudden, bizarre act of shielding me from the cold.
"I won't let you freeze, little bird," he says, his eyes locking onto mine, correctly reading the absolute confusion swirling in my mind. "I take care of what is mine."
What is mine.Notwhois mine. The distinction is not lost on me.
"Go to the bathroom," he orders, his tone shifting back to the cold, detached authority of the Syndicate boss. He points toward a set of massive, dark oak double doors at the far end of the hallway. "Wash the paint off your face. Take out the pins. You look like a corpse they dressed up for a viewing."
The insult stings, mostly because it is the absolute truth. My father’s team of stylists had engineered me to look like a porcelain sacrifice.
I don't argue. I clutch the edges of the heavy cashmere blanket with white-knuckled fingers, holding it securely against my chest, and practically flee toward the doors he indicated. I step around the puddle of ruined silk and lace on the floor, the remnants of my previous life discarded like trash.
I push through the heavy oak doors, and they swing shut behind me with a solid, definitiveclick.
I am standing in the master bedroom, and the sheer scale of the space instantly crushes whatever tiny flare of hope I had of finding a way out. The walls are paneled in dark, brooding mahogany. A massive, king-sized bed sits in the center of the room, draped in severe, dark gray linens. More floor-to-ceiling windows offer a dizzying, terrifying drop down to the Chicago streets below. There is no balcony. There are no fire escapes. The glass is reinforced.
This is the velvet cage.
My breathing turns ragged again. I force my legs to move, crossing the plush, dark carpet toward the adjoining master bathroom. The bathroom is a sprawling temple of black slate and chrome, featuring a massive walk-in shower encased in glass and a deep, freestanding soaking tub.
I drop the cashmere blanket. It falls to the black slate floor with a soft thud. I step into the shower enclosure and turn the chrome dial, not waiting for the water to warm up.
The blast of freezing water hits my bare skin like a thousand tiny needles. I gasp, the shock forcing my lungs to expand fully for the first time in hours. Within seconds, the water turns scalding hot, turning the massive glass enclosure into a thick, suffocating cloud of steam.
I stand directly under the rainfall showerhead, letting the blistering heat pound against my scalp. I reach up with trembling fingers and begin pulling the dozens of heavy metal bobby pins from my intricate braided crown. The pins clatter loudly as I drop them onto the wet slate floor, one by one. As the braids come undone, my dark hair falls heavily down my back insoaking wet, tangled waves, washing away the heavy, suffocating scent of the cathedral and my father's desperate cologne.
I grab a bar of soap—it smells exactly like Thayer, cedar and dark musk—and scrub my skin until it is flushed and raw. I scrub at the bruising pressure points on my arms where my father grabbed me. I scrub at the invisible fingerprints Thayer left on my jawline. But no matter how hard I press, I can still feel the ghost of his touch burning into my nerve endings.
I lean my forehead against the wet glass of the shower wall, the hot water cascading over my shaking shoulders, and finally, the dam breaks.
I cry. I sob until my throat is entirely raw, the sound muffled by the roar of the water. I cry for the childhood I never had, for the mother who died before she could protect me, and for the absolute, inescapable finality of my situation. I am entirely alone in a fortress in the sky, legally bound to a monster who makes my blood freeze and my pulse race in the exact same breath.
When the tears finally run dry, leaving me hollowed out and completely numb, I turn off the water. The silence that rushes back into the bathroom is oppressive.
I step out of the shower, wrapping a massive, impossibly soft black towel around my body. I wipe the steam from the massive vanity mirror.
The girl looking back at me is entirely unrecognizable from the polished bride who walked down the aisle an hour ago. My eyes are bloodshot and swollen, the bruised crimson lipstick completely washed away, leaving my lips pale and trembling. My wet hair clings to my shoulders like dark ink. I look feral. Hunted.
I secure the towel over my breasts and step out of the bathroom, back into the cavernous master bedroom. Thayer is not there. The silence in the penthouse suggests I am entirely alone in this wing of the fortress.
