CHAPTER 9 THE MONSTER’S REFLECTION POV SYBIL #2
I stagger to the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet just in time to empty the meager contents of my stomach.
My body violently rejects the horror of what I just witnessed.
I dry-heave until my throat is entirely raw, tears streaming down my face, dripping off my chin onto the cold tile floor.
I am married to the devil.
A man who will burn the entire world to the ground, sacrifice innocent children, and execute loyal servants, just to ensure that the cage he built for me remains completely impenetrable.
I push myself away from the toilet, collapsing against the cold marble wall. I pull my knees to my chest, burying my face in my arms. I should hate him. I should be terrified of him. I should be searching this bunker for a weapon to use against him the second he walks back through that door.
But the cognitive dissonance—the psychological warfare of my trauma—is a poison completely infecting my brain.
My father sold me to save himself. My father left me to die.
Thayer just proved that he values my life above everything else on this miserable, bloody earth. He is a monster, but he is a monster entirely devoted to my survival. And in the dark, shattered ruins of my soul, that terrifying devotion feels dangerously close to a twisted, sick kind of love.
I sit on the cold floor for an hour. The silence in the bunker is heavy, expectant, winding my nervous system tighter and tighter until I feel like a plucked guitar string ready to violently snap.
Then, I hear it.
The heavy, mechanical hum of the biometric scanner engaging.
I lift my head. My heart instantly accelerates, beating a bruised, frantic rhythm against my sternum.
The massive pneumatic steel doors hiss loudly, sliding open to reveal the dark elevator car.
Thayer steps into the bunker.
He is completely exhausted. The lethal, coiled energy that dictated his movements in the interrogation room has given way to a heavy, bone-deep weariness.
His white dress shirt is ruined, soaked with the blood of the men he interrogated before Maria.
His dark hair is messy, falling forward over his sharp, aristocratic brow.
The knuckles of both his hands are split, bruised purple, and crusted with dried crimson.
The steel doors hiss shut behind him, the locks engaging with a definitive, inescapable slam.
He stops just inside the threshold. His pale gray eyes immediately sweep the vast space, instantly locking onto me where I sit on the bathroom floor.
He registers my pale face. He registers the oversized t-shirt I am wearing. And then, his gaze flicks to the command console. The monitors are still glowing, the live feed of the now-empty basement interrogation room illuminating the dark leather of the chair.
He knows I watched it. He knows exactly what I saw.
The air in the bunker turns incredibly dense.
Thayer doesn't move. He stands completely still, his broad shoulders rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.
He is waiting for the fallout. He is waiting for me to scream, to call him a murderer, to scramble away from him in pure, unadulterated terror.
I don't.
Slowly, using the marble wall for support, I push myself to my feet. My legs are trembling, but I force my spine to straighten. I step out of the bathroom and into the dim, blue-white light of the main living area.
Thayer watches my approach with the intense, unblinking focus of an apex predator tracking a sudden, unexpected movement in the brush. His jaw is locked tight, a muscle ticking furiously beneath his skin.
I close the distance between us. I don't stop until I am standing less than two feet away from him.
The scent of him is completely overwhelming up close. Blood, raw violence, cold sweat, and the dark, intoxicating musk of cedar. The sheer physical presence of him is a gravitational force, pulling me entirely into his orbit.
"You watched," he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, entirely stripped of its usual smooth, velvet cadence. It is the raw, unfiltered voice of the monster in the dark.
"I watched," I whisper, my voice trembling, my eyes locked onto his.
"She was a traitor," he states flatly, offering absolutely no apology, no justification beyond the absolute law of his world.
"She allowed a blade within striking distance of your heart.
I would execute a thousand women just like her to ensure you keep breathing, Sybil.
Do not expect remorse from me. You will not find any. "
"I know," I breathe.
I look down at his hands. They are massive, lethal weapons, currently resting heavily at his sides. I slowly lift my right hand. My fingers are trembling so violently I can barely keep them straight.
I reach out.
Thayer completely freezes. The sudden, absolute stillness that overtakes his massive frame is terrifying. He stops breathing. His gray eyes widen for a fraction of a second, completely unprepared for my action.
I gently wrap my small, cold fingers around his thick, blood-crusted wrist.
The shock of the contact is electric. It fires straight up my arm, a violent chemical reaction that completely short-circuits my brain. Thayer’s muscles are rigid, pulled tight as steel cables beneath his skin.
I don't pull him. I don't try to force him. I simply exert a gentle, steady pressure, guiding him forward.
"Come," I whisper, my eyes flicking up to meet his intense, burning gaze.
Thayer swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply against the strong column of his throat. He doesn't say a word. He allows me to lead him across the polished concrete floor, back toward the sterile, bright lights of the bathroom.
I guide him to the edge of the massive marble vanity counter. "Sit."
He obeys. He sinks onto the edge of the counter, his long legs spreading slightly to accommodate me as I step entirely into his physical space.
I am standing directly between his knees.
The heat radiating off his large body is immense, completely chasing away the chill of the concrete beneath my bare feet.
I turn to the sink. I grab a pristine, thick white towel and turn the stainless steel faucet to hot. The water steams, rushing over the fabric. I wring it out carefully, my heart hammering so loudly in my ears I can barely hear the running water.
I turn back to him.
Thayer is watching me. His eyes are dark, completely dilated, burning with a profound, terrifying intensity. The possessive obsession in his gaze is a physical weight, pressing heavily against my chest, making it impossible to draw a full breath.
I take his right hand. I hold his thick wrist with my left hand, and with my right, I bring the hot, damp towel to his ruined knuckles.
I am inverting the exact ritual he performed for me hours ago.
I press the hot fabric against his split skin. Thayer’s breath hitches—a sharp, ragged sound that completely shatters the silence of the room. His large fingers twitch, instinctively curling slightly, but he forces his hand to remain open, completely surrendering to my touch.
I methodically wipe the blood from his knuckles. The water turns pink, staining the pristine white towel. I trace the heavy, dark lines of the Syndicate tattoos wrapping around his forearm, washing away the violence of the day, leaving only the heat of his skin beneath my trembling fingers.
The intimacy of the act is suffocating. It is far more terrifying, far more dangerous than the violence I witnessed on the monitor.
"Why are you doing this?" Thayer asks, his voice dropping into a dark, vibrating hum that sends a violent shiver racing down my spine.
I don't look up. I focus entirely on the slow, deliberate movement of the towel across his skin. "Because you are covered in blood."
"It isn't my blood, Sybil," he murmurs, his left hand coming up to rest lightly on my waist, his long fingers pressing into the fabric of the oversized t-shirt. The heat of his touch sears straight through the cotton.
"I know," I whisper, my voice completely breathless.
I finish his right hand and move to his left. I repeat the process, washing away the evidence of his wrath, my thumb gently tracing the heavy, calloused pad of his palm.
When both of his hands are clean, I don't step away.
I drop the ruined towel into the sink. I reach up, my trembling fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before I begin to undo the small, pearl buttons of his ruined white dress shirt.
Thayer’s entire body goes completely rigid. The hand resting on my waist tightens, his fingers digging possessively into my hip.
I slip the first button through the hole. Then the second. I part the crisp, blood-stained fabric, exposing the heavy, tightly coiled muscles of his chest. His skin is incredibly hot, his heart thudding with a heavy, violent rhythm that perfectly matches my own.
I take a fresh, damp washcloth from the counter. I press it gently to the center of his chest, wiping away the smudges of crimson that had soaked through the fabric.
Thayer cannot take it anymore.
The iron-clad control he has maintained completely snaps.
His hands shoot out. He grips my waist with bone-crushing force, hauling me completely flush against his chest. I gasp, the breath knocked entirely out of my lungs as my soft curves collide with the unyielding, muscular wall of his body.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his hot breath washing over my sensitive skin, making a violent cascade of shivers erupt down my spine.
"You are going to completely destroy me," he groans, the sound completely raw, a feral admission of absolute defeat.
His lips brush against the pulse point frantically beating at the base of my throat. The touch is a violent electrical shock. It isn't a gentle, comforting caress. It is the desperate, hungry touch of a starving man who has finally been given a taste of a feast.
My hands fly up, completely instinctual, my fingers threading into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck. I grip him tightly, anchoring myself to him as the room spins wildly out of control.
Thayer lifts his head. His gray eyes are entirely black now, entirely consumed by the dark, primal lust that has been simmering beneath the surface since the moment he saw me at the top of those stairs six years ago.
He slides one hand up my back, his long fingers tangling in my hair, holding the back of my head in an inescapable, iron grip.
His other hand drops low, his large palm gripping the back of my thigh through the thin cotton of the t-shirt, lifting my leg and pulling it flush against his hip, completely trapping me in the vee of his spread legs.
The sheer physical dominance of the posture leaves absolutely no room for negotiation.
"Thayer," I gasp, my chest heaving against his.
"Do you fear me, Sybil?" he murmurs, his face hovering mere millimeters from mine, his gaze dropping to my parted, trembling lips.
"Yes," I whisper, the absolute truth tumbling from my mouth.
"Good," he growls, his velvet voice a lethal promise. "Fear me. Hate me. Let it consume you. But know this, little bird..."
His hand on my thigh tightens, pulling me impossibly closer, completely aligning the aching, desperate center of my body against the heavy, hard ridge of his arousal. I let out a soft, broken whimper, my eyes fluttering shut as a wave of intense, terrifying heat floods between my legs.
"You are the only person on this miserable fucking earth," Thayer whispers against my lips, "who is ever allowed to touch the monster."
He doesn't wait for my response.
His mouth crashes down on mine, entirely devouring my next breath.