CHAPTER 8 THE VAULT POV THAYER #2
The absolute authority in my voice overrides her panic. Her grip on my wrists loosens, her hands falling helplessly to her sides.
I pull the heavy cashmere over her head and toss it onto the floor.
She is left sitting on the counter in nothing but her black leggings and a sheer black lace bra she had pulled from the penthouse closet. The temperature in the bunker is regulated, but a violent shiver completely wracks her body, a wave of goosebumps erupting across her pale skin.
I don't touch her immediately. I force myself to stand perfectly still, my eyes scanning every inch of her exposed torso with the cold, clinical precision of a coroner.
I check the delicate, sharp line of her collarbones.
I track the pale expanse of her chest, watching the rapid, terrified rise and fall of her breasts beneath the white lace.
I examine her ribs, her waist, looking for any sign of a struggle, any microscopic scratch that might indicate the blade found its mark.
There is no blood. There are no cuts.
But the sheer proximity, the intense, predatory focus of my gaze, is doing something entirely unexpected to her.
As my eyes slowly trace the curve of her hip, a deep, flush of heat begins to bloom across her chest. Her breathing changes.
The jagged, panicked gasps slowly morph into heavier, deeper intakes of air.
Her pupils dilate further, not just with fear, but with the undeniable, biological reaction to being completely consumed by the undivided attention of an apex predator.
She feels it. The dark, twisting current of attraction beneath the terror.
I lift my right hand. I move agonizingly slowly, letting her anticipate the contact, letting the tension completely saturate the sterile air between us.
I place my palm flat against the center of her chest, directly over her heart.
The heat of my skin against hers is an electrical shock. She gasps, a soft, fragmented sound that hits me right in the groin. I can feel the frantic, heavy thud of her heart beating wildly against my palm.
"You are racing," I murmur, my thumb brushing lightly against the lace edge of her bra.
"You're scaring me," she whispers, her eyes locked onto mine, completely unable to look away.
"Am I?" I ask, stepping half an inch closer, until the fabric of my trousers brushes against her bare knees.
I slide my hand slowly up her chest, my fingers tracing the delicate column of her throat, before lightly cupping the side of her neck.
"If you were truly terrified, Sybil, your body would be pulling away.
You would be trying to slide off this counter.
But you aren't moving. You are leaning into my hand. "
Her breath catches. A look of profound confusion and deep-seated shame flashes across her face. She realizes I am right. Her body is betraying the fear her mind is desperately trying to cling to.
"I don't... I don't know what is wrong with me," she stammers, a hot tear springing to her eye.
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with you," I say, my voice a dark, velvet caress. "Your father taught you that power is something to be feared. He taught you that control is synonymous with pain. I am going to completely rewrite that programming, little bird."
I reach to the counter and grab a pristine white washcloth. I run it under the warm water, wringing it out.
With terrifyingly gentle precision, I bring the damp cloth to her face. I hold the back of her head with my left hand, anchoring her to me, while I use my right hand to slowly, meticulously wipe the assassin’s blood from her cheek.
She closes her eyes, completely surrendering to the movement. Her muscles finally begin to uncoil. The heavy, oppressive weight of the day's trauma seems to bleed out of her with every stroke of the warm cloth against her skin.
I wash the blood away entirely, leaving her skin pale and flawless once again. I toss the ruined washcloth into the sink.
I reach for a drawer beneath the vanity and pull out a soft, dark gray cotton t-shirt—one of mine.
I guide her arms through the sleeves and pull it over her head.
The shirt completely swallows her, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the neckline falling off one of her delicate shoulders.
The scent of my cedarwood and musk instantly envelops her.
She looks so small. So fragile. And yet, she is the only thing in my entire empire that possesses the power to bring me to my knees.
"Come," I say, stepping back and offering her my hand.
She slides off the marble counter. Her legs tremble slightly as they hit the floor, the adrenaline completely depleted from her system. She doesn't hesitate this time. She places her small, cold hand in mine.
I lead her out of the bathroom and across the vast expanse of the bunker toward the sleeping quarters.
The bed is massive, a heavy platform of dark steel covered in thick, dark charcoal linens.
There are no windows, no natural light to indicate the passing of time.
It is a sensory deprivation chamber designed for absolute security.
I pull the heavy duvet back. "Get in."
She climbs onto the mattress, pulling her knees to her chest, the oversized t-shirt pooling around her. She looks around the cavernous, silent room, the reality of our complete isolation finally settling heavily onto her shoulders.
"Thayer," she says, her voice echoing slightly in the large space. "How long... how long are we going to be down here?"
I stop at the edge of the bed. I look at her, my gray eyes completely unreadable, masking the violent, paranoid calculations running through my mind.
"Until I am completely satisfied that every single threat to your life has been eradicated," I answer flatly.
"But you said it was an inside job," she presses, her fingers twisting nervously into the dark sheets. "You said someone with a keycard let him in. How can you ever know for sure?"
"I will know," I state, the absolute, chilling certainty in my voice leaving no room for doubt.
"Because I am going to tear this Syndicate apart from the inside out.
I am going to find the rat, and I am going to make an example of them that will echo through the Chicago underworld for the next fifty years. "
I reach into my pocket and pull out my encrypted mobile device. It is vibrating silently. The only person with the clearance to route a call down to the bunker is Dante.
I answer the call, pressing the phone to my ear, my eyes never leaving Sybil's face.
"Speak," I command.
"Boss," Dante's voice is heavy, laden with a grim tension that instantly makes the muscles in my jaw lock. "We reviewed the security footage. The internal cameras were wiped, but we managed to pull a partial log from the secondary server before the rat scrubbed it."
"Give me a name."
Dante hesitates. The silence on the line is deafening. It takes a massive amount of courage for my underboss to deliver the next sentence.
"The keycard used to bypass the residential wing protocols..." Dante swallows hard. "It belonged to Maria."
My blood turns to liquid nitrogen.
Maria. The housekeeper. The woman who practically raised me after my mother died. The woman who just an hour ago was trembling in front of Sybil, claiming she was terrified of my wrath.
She opened the door. She let the blade into my home.
"Secure her," I order, my voice a dead, demonic whisper that makes Sybil flinch on the bed. "Put her in the basement. Do not let anyone touch her. I will handle her myself."
I cut the connection before Dante can reply.
I drop the phone onto the nightstand. The silence in the bunker is absolute.
Sybil is staring at me, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of terror and desperate curiosity. She can read the catastrophic shift in my posture. She knows the war just breached the final wall.
"Who was it?" she whispers.
I look down at her. The woman my own people are trying to butcher. The woman I am going to burn the world to protect.
"It doesn't matter," I lie smoothly, the deception necessary to keep her from completely shattering. I will not tell her that the only other woman in this compound just tried to have her murdered. "The threat is contained."
I step out of my ruined leather shoes. I pull the dark tie from my neck, tossing it onto a chair, followed by my suit jacket. I unbutton my dress shirt, pulling it off my shoulders, exposing the heavy, dark ink of the Syndicate tattoos and the rigid, tightly coiled muscles of my chest and arms.
Sybil stops breathing entirely. She watches me undress with a wide, mesmerized stare, completely unable to look away from the sheer physical power of the monster in her room.
I unbuckle my belt, letting it hit the concrete floor with a heavy clack, and strip down to my dark boxer briefs.
I walk to the control panel on the wall near the bed. I press my palm against the biometric scanner.
A heavy, mechanical slam echoes through the bunker. It is the sound of the main steel doors locking down completely. The magnetic seals engage. The external override is disabled.
No one is coming in. And we are not going out.
I turn back to the bed. I slide beneath the heavy charcoal duvet, the mattress dipping significantly under my weight.
Sybil instantly scuttles backward, pressing her spine against the massive steel headboard, her eyes frantic.
"What are you doing?" she gasps.
"The perimeter is compromised," I state methodically, shifting my large body into the center of the bed, completely cutting off her route of escape. "The compound is no longer a safe zone."
"But... but we are in the bunker," she stammers, pulling her knees tighter to her chest. "The door is locked."
"Exactly," I murmur, my pale gray eyes locking onto hers, burning with an intense, unyielding obsession. I reach out, my large hand wrapping securely around her ankle over the fabric of her leggings. I don't pull her, but the grip is an absolute, physical anchor.
"The monster is no longer at the door, Sybil," I whisper, the dark promise hanging heavy in the sterile air. "He is in the bed. And you are never sleeping alone again."