16. Thorne

SIXTEEN

Thorne

Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me.

Friday, December 22

8:17 am

I wake up to the soft sound of breathing beside me, the warmth of Woodley's body pressed up against mine. For the first time since this trip began, I'm not feeling the usual surge of irritation or restlessness that's been gnawing at me since we left Chattanooga.

Instead, there's this quiet contentment, like everything has settled into place, even if just for a moment.

I look down at her, her face relaxed in sleep, and something stirs in me. Something that's been building ever since we got stuck in this trip from hell on Wednesday, something I didn't expect. Feelings. Real ones.

Only, I didn't realize it. Looking back, I can see it unfolding, ever so discreetly. If I didn't look at how far we've come from start to finish, I might have missed it all together. But we have covered a lot of ground in less than seventy-two hours.

I turn my head slightly, watching her sleep. Her hair is spread across the pillow, her face relaxed in a way that fills me with affection. In this bubble we've created, away from the deadlines, the stress, and the chaos outside, I appreciate the simple calmness.

What that will mean once we leave this place, I don't know. But right now, here in this little pocket of magic, I'm not in a rush to find out. Because here, in this moment, this is good.

Carefully, I slide my arm out from under her, trying not to wake her as I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I glance at the screen, squinting against the early morning light filtering through the curtains. Christmas is just three days away.

Weather improving. Airport tentatively reopening today, flights delayed, thousands of travelers stranded could make it home for the holidays.

My stomach tightens a little. The idea of leaving this place is bittersweet. I'm ready to get home. I have been looking forward to getting home before I even got on the initial flight to come here. But now with everything we've been through, knowing she will be alone for Christmas, I'm not as eager to get out of here.

I lower my phone, glancing back at Woodley. There's something magical about this, being stuck here with her in this winter wonderland—cut off from everything else. Once the storm clears, once we're back in the real world, what will happen? Will there even be a scenario we could continue this? I had planned to try to get transferred to D.C. but now that is the last thing I want, if it could mean seeing if this could work in the real world.

I shake off the thought and scroll down to the news. There's a new article about the bombing at the airport. My eyes narrow as I click the link, curiosity pulling me in.

I scroll through the article, my curiosity getting the better of me. The headline reads, Bombing at Terminal A: Targeted Attack on Cargo Operations Linked to Sensitive Government Contracts. I skim the details.

Authorities have confirmed that the explosion in Terminal A was not aimed at passengers, but instead, targeted a logistics division tied to sensitive cargo operations. This division, identified as " Faber-Ward Transportation," handles transportation for defense contracts and other government-related materials.

The motive behind the attack appears to be focused on disrupting these operations, but the investigation is ongoing.

I sit up, scanning the rest of the article, but nothing stands out. It blows my mind that I was there when this all went down. This world is getting crazier by the day. Thank goodness there were no fatalities. Still, I'm shaken that I was there when a freaking bombing happened at the airport

Woodley stirs beside me, stretching and blinking herself awake. She looks peaceful for a second, but then her gaze sharpens when she sees me holding my phone.

"Morning," she says softly, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Good morning, beautiful. Looks like the airport is most likely going to open back up today."

"Are we going to get out of here or what?"

"It appears that the nor'easter is subsiding. The word is they will ‘tentatively' open this afternoon if the weather continues to improve."

"That's good news, right? I'm wondering if we should reach out to Thom Vicars to see if they want to meet before we leave?"

"Couldn't hurt."

"What are you reading?" She asks as she leans over to peer at the article open on my screen.

"Just the latest on the airport bombing," I reply, handing her the phone. "Apparently, it wasn't aimed at passengers. It was some logistics division."

Woodley frowns as she takes the phone from me, scanning the screen. I watch her expression change almost immediately. Her face pales, and her eyes widen as she inhales sharply.

"What is it?" I ask, suddenly more alert, watching her closely.

She stares at the article for a long moment, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she says, "Faber-Ward. The bombing was connected to my father's company."

I blink, not fully understanding at first. "Your father's company? Wait, I need you to tell me what you're saying here."

She nods, her face still pale. "Yeah, sort of. It's part of a group of companies my father has interests in. It never occurred to me there could be any connection with that. Hell, most of his atrocities go down in countries far away from here, outside of our news cycle, giving him cover to continue to be the villain he is."

Her words trail off as she keeps staring at the screen, and suddenly, everything feels heavier. Whatever distance Woodley's tried to put between herself and her family's business, it seems like it just caught up to her, right here.

Woodley's eyes stay locked on the phone screen, her face pale as the weight of what she's reading sinks in. My mind races, trying to connect the dots. Was this bombing connected to her somehow? Could her father have had a hand in it? Or was she the target? Or was it just some twisted coincidence that she was at the airport when it happened?

"I didn't think it would ever get this close," she says, her voice strained, each word heavy with emotion. She glances at me, then back at the phone, her hands trembling slightly.

"My father's company... I mentioned a little last night, but you don't know the half of it. They're not just involved in defense contracts. They supply weapons to regimes and groups—dangerous ones. It's not about protecting anyone, it's about making money. They provide arms and security equipment to whoever can pay the most, no matter the consequences."

I blink, trying to absorb what she's saying. She presses on, her voice low but steady. "They work under the guise of ‘defense,' but they sell weapons to the highest bidder—war-torn countries, oppressive governments, even groups the U.S. won't touch. It's all business to them, and they're damn good at it."

She pauses, her expression tightening as if she's wrestling with what she's about to say next. "This... this bombing, it's likely tied to one of their divisions—an airport logistics or cargo operation that moves weapons and supplies under the radar. It's not an accident they were targeted. Someone was trying to send a message, and they hit hard."

The words hang in the air between us, and I'm left speechless. It's not just a corrupt business—it's something far darker.

"So your father's company..." I start, trying to piece together what she's revealing. "They're more than just government contractors. They're actively supplying weapons to...?"

"Yes, but it's more than that. Faber-Ward, handles logistics and supplies for high-level contracts, including military defense. But they've made deals with some questionable people. Very bad people, Thorne. Arms dealers. Dictators. Enemies of the United States."

Her voice trembles with barely contained frustration. "I walked away because I didn't want to be a part of it. It's all blood money, and I didn't want that on my hands."

I sit up, still absorbing this. When she gave a little peek into her family dynamics, I figured she meant her family company was ignoring greenhouse emissions regulations, or something less overt in its evilness.

But this is something else. A whole other world. "Faber-Ward," I say, almost to myself, the name sinking in. "I've heard of them now that you're talking about them. They're global and do a lot in the Middle East, right?"

When I read it this morning at first I glossed over that part, the company so ephemeral it barely registered on my radar. But I have heard of them.

"They are," she says quietly. "I'm ashamed to admit it."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. You should be damned proud you stood up for your beliefs and walked away from what would have been an easy life for you if you turned a blind eye."

"Thorne, we were right there," she says, her voice cracking slightly. "In the middle of it. People could have died—we could have died. Because of them."

I glance at her, watching the way she struggles to keep her composure. "If that bombing had gone differently, if we'd been killed..."

She shakes her head, her voice thick with disbelief. "The irony is almost too much. I spent years protesting to my father, begging him to transition into a more peaceful contribution to the world. He could have been a billionaire several times over in a hundred different ways, but he wouldn't stop. He was greedy and dangerous, telling me he couldn't abandon the network he had spent his life building."

Hearing her process this is painful. I can't even imagine how this must feel. And I thought my father investing two hundred grand and riding my ass was bad. This is inconceivable.

I don't know what to say. The realization settles in for both of us—the coincidence, the sheer twist of fate that landed us at that terminal. I can see the realization of it crushing her, the bitterness that her family's dealings still manage to find a way to pull her in, even after she left.

"Woodley," I say quietly, "how big is your father's company?"

She lets out a laugh, almost as if she can't believe I don't know. "It's massive, Thorne. Faber-Ward is a global entity, involved in every kind of contract security worldwide that you can imagine. It doesn't have my family's name on it because my father wanted it that way—he wanted the business separate from us, so he kept the names different. But trust me, it's my family. And it's the reason I walked away."

I swallow, the weight of it sinking in. I had no idea. None. I look at her, this woman who's spent the entire trip defying expectations, and now I understand why.

She's trying to build something honorable and separate from the dark legacy her family created.

I lie here, trying to wrap my head around everything she's just told me. I can't imagine what it must be like to walk away from all that, to turn your back on your family because they're involved in things you can't stomach. And the comfort and security of what that kind of money could bring.

It's different from my life, but in some ways... not that different.

I clear my throat, shifting on the bed beside her. "You know," I start, the words coming slowly, "it's not the same, but I get it. The pressure. The feeling that you're trapped in a life that's been decided for you."

Woodley looks up at me, her expression softening. She doesn't say anything, but I know she's listening.

"I've spent my whole life trying to prove I'm more than just my family's money," I continue. "People think I've been handed everything. Hell, they're not entirely wrong. But I've always felt like I needed to earn something on my own. That's why this account was so important to me. It wasn't just about the money or the deal. It was about proving that I could do something without my father doing it for me."

Woodley watches me closely, her gaze softening. "You've always seemed so confident. Like you were the big shot and you didn't care how you got there."

I laugh, a short, bitter sound. "Yeah, well, that's the act, isn't it? Confidence, arrogance... it's just a way to cover up the fact that I've never felt like I'm enough. I thought if I could nail this account, I'd prove to myself—and maybe even to my father—that I can do it. That I'm not just some trust fund kid skating by."

Her eyes search mine, and I can see the understanding there. Maybe for the first time, we're seeing each other clearly. No more walls, no more pretending.

"It's not easy," she says softly. "Trying to break away from something so big."

"No," I agree, my voice quiet. "It's not."

We lie there quietly. The air between us feels alive. After everything that's happened on this trip, the weight of it all seems to settle differently now.

Woodley turns to face me, her eyes meeting mine, and for the first time, there's something in her gaze that isn't guarded. It's not just the absence of tension, but the presence of something else, something real.

Respect. Understanding. And I suspect, something even deeper.

We've spent so much time pushing each other away, that now, with everything out in the open, it's like we can finally see each other for who we really are. And I like what I see.

It feels solid, grounded in more than just attraction. We actually care for each other now, and that changes everything. No walls. No distance. Just us, here. Together.

I reach out, almost without thinking, and brush a stray lock of hair away from her face. My fingers graze her cheek, and she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

When she opens them again, my entire body is reacting to her closeness: my hands are sweaty, my toes are tingly and my heart is nearly beating out of my chest. I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.

Our lips meet softly at first, a gentle kiss, but it deepens quickly, as if all the tension and understanding we've built is being poured into this moment. It's not about desperation or exhaustion this time. It's not about filling a void. It's about us. Here, now, and everything we've come to understand about each other.

When we finally pull apart, we stay close, our foreheads resting together, both of us catching our breath.

"You're special, you know that?" I murmur, my thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. The words come out before I can stop them, surprising even me. I've never felt the need to say something like this to anyone before, but with her, I can't help myself.

She smiles at me and runs her hand across my chest.

I trail a path of heated kisses down the smooth slope of her breasts, taking my time, savoring the softness of her skin against my lips.

My hands follow, cupping the weight of her, my thumbs teasing over her hardening peaks. I flick my tongue over one, then the other, relishing the way she gasps and arches into my touch.

There's a particular satisfaction in the sharp, needy yelp I coax from her when I gently twist them between my fingers.

My lips travel lower, tracing the delicate lines of her ribcage, the gentle swell of her stomach, my tongue dipping briefly into her navel. I glance up to find her watching me, her hazel eyes dark with desire, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

I reach the apex of her thighs, and the scent of her arousal is intoxicating. I nudge her legs further apart, making room for myself between them. Her body quivers in anticipation, and I can't help but smile against her skin. I want to know every inch of her, commit her taste to memory.

My tongue parts her folds, and I'm greeted by the sweet, musky flavor that is uniquely Woodley. I explore her with long, languid licks, teasing and tasting, my fingers joining in, stroking and circling, slipping inside her with ease.

She's slick and hot, her hips bucking against my hand as I find the rhythm that makes her moan.

The feel of her under my mouth, the sounds she makes, the way she writhes and grips the sheets—it's all driving me wild. Pleasuring her like this, feeling her come undone because of me, it's a high I never want to come down from.

I curl my fingers inside her, pressing against that spongy patch of skin while my tongue flicks over her clit. Her muscles tighten around me, her thighs clamping around my head as she cries out, her orgasm rolling through her in waves.

I ride it out with her, drawing out her pleasure until she's limp and breathless beneath me. But I'm far from done.

Then I kiss my way back up her body, pulling her legs up and hooking them over my shoulders as I position myself at her entrance. Her eyes are hazy with satisfaction, but there's a spark there, a hunger for more. I push into her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face as she stretches to accommodate me.

The position is intimate, almost overwhelmingly so. We're as close as two people can be, our bodies locked together, moving as one. Her eyes never leave mine as I start to thrust, our rhythm building, the friction exquisite.

"Thorne," she breathes, her voice a desperate whisper, and it's both a plea and a benediction.

I feel every shiver and tremor that runs through her, feel her tighten around me as I drive deeper, harder. The ecstasy is intense, a fiery, all-consuming sensation that threatens to sweep me away.

"God, Woodley, you feel so damn good," I groan, my voice hoarse with need.

Her hands are everywhere, clutching at my back, my arms, her nails leaving trails of heat in their wake. I can feel her climbing again, her body tensing, her cries growing louder.

And when we come this time, it's together, a tangle of limbs and gasps and shuddering releases, a connection so profound it steals the breath from my lungs. It's more than just sex. It's a merging of souls, a testament to everything we've shared, everything we've come to mean to each other.

As we lie there in the aftermath, our hearts pounding in unison, I know without a doubt that this—this is what I've been missing all along.