My body shatters into a million pieces. My inner walls spasm violently, milking his thick length in rapid, scalding waves. I sob uncontrollably, entirely broken by the sheer, devastating reality that I love the man who destroyed me.
Thayer roars my name, a dark, victorious sound that shakes the room. He drives into me one final time, locking his body rigidly against mine as he pours his heavy, hot release entirely into my core.
He collapses heavily on top of me, burying his face in my neck, his chest heaving violently against my breasts.
I lie trapped beneath him. The tears stream silently down my face, soaking the white linen.
I am a prisoner in paradise. The queen of a graveyard. And I will never, ever leave.
CHAPTER 27 THE PORCELAIN DOLL POV: THAYER
The Caribbean sun bleeds through the sheer white linen curtains, casting long, ethereal streaks of pale gold across the massive bed.
I do not sleep. I haven't closed my eyes for more than a few fragmented minutes since I dragged Sybil out of the ocean surf and pinned her to this mattress.
I lie perfectly still on my right side, the heavy, air-conditioned chill of the master suite entirely failing to cool the dark, smoldering fever still humming through my bloodstream. My left arm is strapped to my chest, a dull, agonizing, constant throb of infected tissue and severed muscle radiating from my shoulder. It feels as though a jagged piece of rusted iron is buried deep beneath my collarbone, twisting with every beat of my heart.
I completely ignore it. The physical pain is absolutely nothing compared to the overwhelming, intoxicating reality of the woman sleeping beside me.
Sybil is lying on her stomach, her face turned toward me, entirely submerged in the deep, heavy exhaustion that follows a complete psychological and physical shattering. The pristine white sheets are tangled around her waist, leaving the entire upper half of her body exposed to the morning light.
She is a masterpiece of ruin.
My eyes slowly, methodically trace the canvas of her pale skin. The dark, angry bruises blooming on her wrists where I pinned her to the sand. The faint, reddish marks on her hips from the brutal, unyielding grip of my hands. The dark, violet brands on the side of her neck, a permanent visual testament to the absolute violence of my mouth.
I broke her.
Last night, I took the last fragile, innocent pieces of her soul, and I crushed them into dust. I laid the corpse of her murdered mother at her feet, I confessed to being the architect of her entire miserable existence, and then I forced her body to betray her mind. I made her scream my name while she wept for the life I stole from her.
And she didn't leave.
She is still here, her breathing a slow, rhythmic puff of warm air against my collarbone. She accepted the darkness. She swallowed the toxic, heavy poison of my obsession, and she let it completely rewrite her biology.
A dark, feral surge of pure, unadulterated victory expands in my chest, completely suffocating the air from my lungs. She is mine. Completely, irrevocably, eternally mine.
I slowly slide my uninjured right arm out from beneath the heavy duvet. I reach out, my large, calloused fingers hoveringmere millimeters over the soft, exposed curve of her spine. I do not touch her. I simply let the immense, radiating heat of her skin wash over my palm.
I carefully shift my weight, inching backward toward the edge of the mattress. My left shoulder screams in protest, a blinding flash of white-hot agony that makes my vision completely pixelate with dark static. I lock my jaw, grinding my teeth together until the sharp taste of copper floods my tongue, entirely refusing to let a single groan escape my lips.
I slip out of the bed, my bare feet hitting the polished white stone floor.
I stand up, swaying slightly as the room executes a slow, sickening tilt. The blood loss is a heavy, leaden weight dragging at my bones, but I force my spine to straighten. I am the Don. I do not stumble.
I walk silently into the sprawling, glass-enclosed master bathroom.
I bypass the massive sunken tub and step up to the expansive marble vanity. The bright, harsh tropical sunlight pouring through the skylight illuminates my reflection in the mirror.
I look like a demon that crawled out of a mass grave. My pale gray eyes are bloodshot, sunken deep into bruised, dark sockets. A dark, heavy shadow of stubble coats my sharp jawline. My chest is painted with the smeared, faded remnants of dried blood and sweat.
I reach over to the black Pelican medical case resting on the marble counter. I flip the heavy metal latches open.
I need to check the wound. I cannot let Sybil see the extent of the infection. Last night, she looked at me with a mixture of absoluteterror and dark devotion. If she sees that the monster is actively decaying, that the immortal shield she has anchored herself to is physically failing, the fragile psychological glass holding her together will shatter.
I grip the edge of the white medical tape securing the heavy gauze to my left shoulder.
I take a short, jagged breath, and rip the tape away from my skin in one violent, continuous motion.
A low, guttural hiss tears its way up my throat. My right hand slams down onto the marble vanity, my knuckles turning bone-white as I brace my heavy frame against the blinding, catastrophic surge of pain.
