I looked through the iron sights of a weapon, and I extinguished a human life. And I didn't feel horror. I felt powerful.
A ragged, fractured sob completely tears from my throat. My knees buckle.
I collapse onto the polished white stone floor, my hands flying up to cover my face. My chest heaves with violent, jagged gasps, desperately trying to drag oxygen into my paralyzed lungs. The psychological dam completely breaks, a catastrophic flood of guilt, horror, and profound, terrifying realization.
I am a murderer. I am the corrupted, blood-stained Queen of the Thorne Syndicate. I chose the monster over my own father.
"Sybil."
I hear the rustle of fabric. I hear a sharp, agonizing groan of pure physical pain.
Thayer doesn't stay on the bed. Despite the torn artery, despite the stitches ripping in his shoulder, he forces his massive, battered body off the mattress. He drops to his knees on the hard stone floor directly in front of me.
"Don't," I sob, violently shaking my head, completely unable to look at him, entirely consumed by the shame of my own darkness. "Thayer, your shoulder. You're bleeding."
"Look at me," he demands, his voice completely stripping away the gentle velvet, leaving only the dark, commanding roar of the Don.
He reaches out. His uninjured right hand grips my wrists, physically prying my trembling hands away from my face.
I force my tear-soaked, fractured eyes open.
Thayer is kneeling in the sunlight, completely ignoring his own agony. His pale gray eyes are entirely black, burning with a ferocious, obsessive intensity that completely anchors my spinning mind.
"You are spiraling," he states, his thumb pressing heavily into my racing pulse point. "You are thinking about the landing."
"I shot him," I choke out, my voice cracking, tears streaming endlessly down my face. "I pulled the trigger, Thayer. I killed him. I watched him choke on his own blood."
"Yes, you did," Thayer agrees, absolutely refusing to offer me empty platitudes or gentle lies. He embraces the violence completely. "You put a bullet through his chest."
"I'm a monster," I whisper, the devastating confession tasting like ash on my tongue. "I'm just like you."
"No," Thayer corrects fiercely, leaning in until our faces are mere inches apart, the heat of his breath washing over my tear-stained cheeks. "You are not a monster, Sybil. A monster kills for power. A monster kills for pleasure. You killed to protect what is yours. You shot a man who was raising a rifle to execute your husband."
"It felt good," I confess, the darkest, most terrifying truth finally tearing its way out of my soul. "When he fell... when I knew he couldn't hurt you anymore... I didn't feel guilty. I felt glad."
Thayer’s eyes dilate, a dark, feral satisfaction completely washing over his harsh, bruised features.
He doesn't look at me with disgust. He looks at me with absolute, unadulterated worship.
He releases my wrists. He slides his large hands up my arms, cupping my face, his thumbs aggressively wiping the tears from my skin.
"That is exactly how it is supposed to feel," he murmurs, his voice a dark, vibrating hum of pure praise. "You took your power back, little bird. For eighteen years, you were the prey. Youlet the world dictate your terror. On that staircase, you finally became the predator. You are magnificent."
The absolute, unwavering validation in his voice is a psychological narcotic. He doesn't judge my darkness; he completely idolizes it. He takes the heavy, suffocating weight of my guilt and entirely incinerates it in the fire of his obsession.
"I'm so dirty," I whisper, looking down at my clothes, still heavy with the sweat, mud, and blood of Chicago.
"I will clean you," he promises, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate purr.
He pushes himself up, his jaw locking tight against the pain. He reaches down and hauls me to my feet. He keeps his arm securely around my waist, guiding me past the massive bed and into the sprawling, open-concept master bathroom.
It is a temple of white marble and glass. In the center of the room is a massive, circular sunken tub carved directly into the stone, overlooking the endless expanse of the ocean.
Thayer walks to the heavy chrome fixtures and turns the dials. Steaming, crystal-clear water begins to flood the massive basin.
He turns back to me. He doesn't ask. He simply reaches out and grips the hem of my heavy, dark turtleneck sweater.
I raise my arms, completely surrendering to his control. He pulls the heavy fabric over my head and drops it onto the pristine marble floor. He unbuttons the heavy tactical pants, his fingers brushing against my hip bones, sending a violent, electrical shiver straight down my spine. He pushes the pants down, leaving me standing in the warm, humid air completely naked.
