CHAPTER 22 THE GHOSTS WE FEED POV SYBIL #2
The bullet strikes the soldier directly in the collarbone, exploiting the tiny gap in his body armor. The impact violently spins him around. His rifle fires wildly into the ceiling, bringing down a shower of dust and plaster, before he collapses completely, choking on his own blood.
The absolute, ringing silence that falls over the foyer is catastrophic.
I am kneeling on the landing, my chest heaving with rapid, jagged gasps, the heavy barrel of my gun smoking slightly in the freezing air. I just shot a man. I pulled the trigger and ended a life. The psychological weight of the act should crush me. It should break my mind.
But I feel absolutely nothing but a dark, overwhelming surge of protective power.
"Well, well," Bastian’s voice echoes from the shadows near the drawing-room doors. He steps out, his silver revolver raised, a look of genuine surprise crossing his features. "The little bird has talons."
He aims the revolver directly at my chest.
Thayer moves with a speed that entirely defies the catastrophic damage to his body. He lunges across the landing, his massive right arm sweeping out to drag me violently behind him.
Bastian fires.
The booming explosion of the heavy caliber revolver shakes the foundations of the house. The bullet grazes the edge of Thayer’s right ribcage, ripping through his flesh and tearing a jagged hole in the plaster wall behind us.
Thayer doesn't even flinch. He doesn't break his stride. He raises his Glock, completely ignoring the blood pouring from his side and his shoulder.
He fires a single, devastating shot.
The bullet catches Bastian directly in the throat.
Bastian’s eyes widen in absolute, comical shock.
The silver revolver slips from his fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
He reaches up, his hands frantically clutching his shattered windpipe, dark blood violently spraying through his fingers.
He takes one stumbling, pathetic step backward before his knees buckle.
He collapses onto his back, his body twitching violently in the dust before going completely, entirely still.
The ghosts of the Thorne family are finally dead.
I drop my gun. It hits the floorboards with a heavy thud. My entire body begins to shake, a violent, uncontrollable tremor that rattles my teeth. The adrenaline crash is absolute, a devastating freefall into pure exhaustion.
Thayer slowly lowers his weapon. His massive chest is heaving, the blood from his grazed ribs mixing with the crimson pouring from his torn shoulder. He looks down at the three bodies littering the foyer of his childhood prison.
He slowly turns around to face me.
His pale gray eyes are completely blown, burning with a dark, feral, obsessive intensity that completely steals the oxygen from my lungs. He doesn't look at me with horror. He doesn't see a broken girl.
He sees a queen covered in the blood of his enemies.
He drops his gun. He closes the distance between us in two heavy, predatory strides. He drops to his knees on the dusty floorboards, his right hand shooting out to grip the back of my neck.
He drags me forward, crashing his mouth down onto mine.
The kiss is an absolute, violent explosion.
It is a collision of survival, adrenaline, and pure, unadulterated madness.
He tastes like gunpowder, sweat, and absolute victory.
I moan, my hands flying up to grip his jaw, my fingers digging desperately into his skin, entirely anchoring myself to the monster I just killed for.
He pulls away, his chest heaving against mine, his forehead resting heavily against my own.
"You shot him," Thayer whispers, his voice a dark, ragged purr, entirely laced with a deep, twisted reverence. "You stood in the fire for me."
"I told you," I gasp, my breath hot against his lips. "I am not leaving you."
"You are completely insane," he murmurs, his thumb brushing fiercely across my lower lip, his eyes completely consuming my face.
"I am a Thorne," I throw his own words back at him, entirely claiming the darkness he infected me with.
A low, feral growl vibrates deep in his throat. He doesn't care that he is bleeding. He doesn't care that the federal government is hunting us. The only thing that exists in his universe is the absolute, undeniable proof of my devotion.
He stands up, his massive right arm sweeping behind my knees, lifting me entirely off the floor. I wrap my arms around his thick neck, completely burying my face in his shoulder as he carries me away from the slaughter on the landing.
He kicks the heavy double doors of the master suite open, carrying me back into the cavernous, freezing bedroom.
He doesn't set me down gently. He tosses me onto the center of the massive, musty velvet mattress. I bounce slightly, the dust rising in the gray light, my hair fanning out wildly over the heavy pillows.
Thayer stands at the edge of the bed, a terrifying, beautiful god of war. His chest is a canvas of blood and dark ink. His eyes are entirely black.
"Take them off," he commands, his voice dropping into a demonic, guttural register that commands absolute obedience.
I don't hesitate. My hands are frantic, my fingers completely numb with cold and adrenaline, but I desperately strip the heavy tactical pants down my hips, kicking them off the edge of the bed. I grab the hem of the dark turtleneck and pull it over my head, discarding it onto the floor.
I am completely naked. The ruined lace of my bra and underwear are gone, entirely stripped away by the violence of the morning. The freezing air of the mansion hits my bare skin, but the intense, burning heat radiating from Thayer’s gaze completely eradicates the cold.
He climbs onto the bed, his heavy knees sinking deeply into the old mattress. He crawls over me, caging my small body completely beneath his massive frame. He supports his weight on his right forearm, his bleeding left arm tucked tightly against his chest.
"This house," Thayer whispers, his face hovering inches from mine, his hot breath ghosting over my skin. "This is where Lorenzo broke me. This is where he taught me that love is a weakness. That the only way to survive is to be a monster."
"He was wrong," I breathe, reaching up, my hands entirely cupping his rough, bruised face. "You aren't a monster, Thayer. You're my husband."
The absolute purity of the claim completely shatters his control.
He crashes his mouth down onto mine, his tongue invading, entirely dominating the kiss. His right hand slides down my side, his rough palm heavily tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip, before completely slipping between my thighs.
I gasp into his mouth, my spine violently arching off the mattress. I am completely soaked for him, my body entirely flush with the desperate, agonizing need to feel him inside me, to completely overwrite the trauma of this house with the physical proof of our survival.
He doesn't offer any preliminary preparation. We are far beyond the need for gentleness.
He unzips his trousers with frantic, one-handed desperation, pushing the heavy fabric down. The thick, hard ridge of his arousal springs free, pressing hot and branding against my inner thigh.
He positions himself at my entrance. He stares down at me, his eyes burning with a possessive fire that completely incinerates my soul.
"I am erasing him, Sybil," Thayer growls, his hips driving forward with absolute, terrifying power. "I am making this house ours."
He buries himself entirely inside me with one ruthless, devastating thrust.
A high, breathless scream completely tears from my throat.
The pain is a sharp, brief tearing sensation that is instantly swallowed by a heavy, scalding wave of absolute fullness.
He is massive, completely stretching me, filling the empty, hollow core of my existence until there is absolutely nothing left but him.
Thayer goes entirely rigid above me, a harsh, ragged groan vibrating out of his chest as my internal muscles clamp down violently around his thick length. The sweat from his chest drips onto my skin.
"Look at me," he demands, his voice completely raw.
I force my heavy, tear-soaked lashes open.
"You are mine," he snarls, slowly pulling back until he is almost entirely withdrawn, before driving his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt again with a heavy, wet slap of flesh that echoes loudly in the cavernous room.
"Yours," I sob, my fingernails digging brutally into his uninjured shoulder.
He begins to move. The rhythm is entirely punishing. It is a desperate, aggressive, primal claiming. He doesn't make love to me; he completely brands my nerve endings, his heavy hips slamming against mine, driving me deeper into the musty mattress with every devastating thrust.
I completely surrender to the violence of his possession.
The friction ignites a white-hot, blinding fire in the center of my body.
My head tosses back against the pillows, short, fractured cries escaping my lips with every impact.
He knows exactly how to unravel me. The angle of his hips, the heavy, demanding pressure of his body against mine—he completely controls the agonizing, terrifying climb toward the edge.
"Thayer, please," I beg, completely lost in the delirium, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper.
"Scream for me, Sybil," he growls, entirely increasing the brutal, driving pace of his thrusts. "Let the ghosts hear exactly who you belong to."
The climax hits me like a physical explosion.
My vision completely whites out. A loud, melodic scream rips from my throat as my inner muscles spasm violently, repeatedly milking his heavy length. The sheer intensity of the orgasm completely stops my heart, a profound, agonizing pleasure that entirely consumes my consciousness.
Thayer roars my name, a dark, primal sound of absolute victory. He drives into me one final, catastrophic time, his massive body locking rigidly against mine as he pours his heavy, hot release deeply into my core.
He collapses forward, entirely burying his face in the crook of my neck, his chest heaving violently against my breasts. His heart is hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against mine, completely syncing our bodies in the aftermath of the absolute destruction we just shared.
We lie in the silence for a long time. The house is completely quiet. The ghosts are dead. The adrenaline slowly drains from my system, replaced by a heavy, lethargic exhaustion.
Thayer eventually rolls off me, groaning softly as his torn shoulder protests the movement. He pulls the heavy, musty velvet bedspread over our naked bodies, pulling me flush against his uninjured side.
I rest my head on his chest, my fingers lazily tracing the dark ink of the Syndicate tattoos wrapping around his ribs. I am entirely at peace, completely insulated in the dark, twisted world we have built for ourselves.
Then, my eyes catch sight of Bastian’s black trench coat, lying discarded on the floor near the bedroom door where Thayer had dragged him earlier.
A small, rectangular object has slipped halfway out of the inner pocket. A mobile phone.
I slowly slide out from under the heavy blanket, entirely ignoring the cold air. Thayer stirs, but the exhaustion and the blood loss are pulling him back into sleep.
I walk across the dusty floorboards. I bend down and pick up the device.
The screen is cracked, but it illuminates instantly to my touch. It is an encrypted messaging app, left open by Bastian before the shootout.
There is only one message on the screen, received less than an hour ago.
He is at the Lake County estate. He is bleeding heavily. The girl is with him. Finish it, Bastian, or the Feds will.
I stare at the digital text, the blood completely freezing in my veins.
I look at the sender’s ID. It isn't a name. It is a highly encrypted alphanumeric string. But I recognize the signature block. I recognize the routing code that Thayer’s inner circle uses.
It is Dante’s frequency.
My breathing completely stops. The absolute, paralyzing truth crashes down on me, shattering the fragile peace we just bled to secure.
The Underboss didn't secure the perimeter to buy us time.
Dante Vitiello set the trap.