5. Thayer

I slideout from the backseat, leaving the traitor behind, and as I do, a sharp nod from me is all it takes—Cal, Quen, and Harry close in around the SUV. They're pros at this, just like me. No hesitation. They understand what needs to be done.

The rain is picking up now, coming down in sheets that turn the world into a blurred mess of lights and shadows. The wetness doesn't faze us—it can't, not in our line of work.

I move closer to Vogue, seeing her there in the driver's seat with that tight grip on the wheel, her hands still in the gloves I gave her. She's tough as nails, but her breath comes fast, chest rising and falling like she's run a marathon. She's new to this shit, but she'll learn.

"You have a choice to make. Go home or come with us."

She glares at me, and I smile. "I'm coming," she says forcefully and cuts the engine, climbing out and moving around to the other side.

Cal leans into the car and grabs our betrayer by the ankle, letting him hit the deck as he drags him out of the backseat. "Let's get him inside," he says in that controlled tone of his. We all know ‘inside' means one of those rooms where no one can hear you scream.

Quentin and Harry haul the bastard up and drag him across the slick grass toward an unassuming building on campus—a place we've used before for meetings that aren't for public consumption.

Vogue follows silently behind us, carrying the artwork in the tube as if her life depends on it.

Well, it kind of does.

Flicking on the low light in the disused building, Harry and Quen throw the guy on the floor, and I cross over to him, ready to find out why he fucking decided to betray us and for whom.

The inside of the building is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, and only something wicked could warm. We all stand in a circle around the betrayer, whose consciousness is now creeping back.

The prick on the floor groans, the zip tie rubbing on his wrists as he moves. His eyes are wide now as he scans us—the firing squad. Harry moves first, slowly pacing towards him with that predatory grace he's known for.

"Why did you do it?" Harry asks, voice deceptively sweet.

The man's voice trembles, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "I have these debts, and they're threatening me if I don't pay up. I had no other choice." I roll my eyes, tired of hearing the same fucking lame excuses over and over again.

Callum keeps his back to Vogue; he's shielding her from what he knows will happen next. She shouldn't have to see this part—but maybe she should? Maybe she needs to understand what we are—what she's becoming a part of.

I kneel down in front of him; I'm close enough to smell his fear. "Who did you sell us out to?" I demand.

The traitor looks up at Vogue once, pleading with his eyes.

I grip his chin and force his gaze to mine. "Don't look at her. My parents are not going to be happy with you, assface, so I suggest you tell me now, and maybe I'll go lighter on you."

His lips quiver as he stammers out a name—a name we all recognise, a rival who's been trying to screw with our operations for months. "Saint Monroe."

I stand up and glance at the guys. They know what this means—war. And the betrayer on the floor has just signed his own death warrant by choosing the wrong side. I tighten my grip on the knife and stab him once in the gut, feeling the blood well up as he screams, the sound echoing off the walls of the cold, hollow room. His screams don't faze us; they're a part of the shitty symphony we conduct when disloyalty is on the table. Quentin steps forward next and kicks him in the ribs before punching the betrayer's face.

Harry joins in, his boots thudding against flesh, each hit punctuated with a grunt of effort. It's a symphony of violence, the only kind the Syndicate truly understands.

Vogue's eyes are wide with shock and fascination. She's not one of us, not yet; she hasn't been baptised by blood and brutality. The look in her eyes tells me she's teetering on the edge—she could break or become something stronger.

Callum finally turns to look at her, his face an unreadable mask. "Stay or leave, Vogue," he says quietly. "But choose now."

There's a moment where the world seems to hold its breath, waiting. Then she steps forward, placing the tube on the ground. Her voice is steady when she speaks next.

"I stay."

It's a pivotal moment; I can feel it in my bones.

The traitor is whimpering on the floor now, his cries subsiding into gurgling whimpers as his life bleeds out onto the cold concrete—his fate sealed.

Vogue steps closer to the man's struggling form, and for a second, I think she's going to falter. But she grips the knife in her hand that I gave her, it's hers, a gift that she doesn't know about yet. Once she spills blood with it, she will be initiated, and no one will ever touch her again.

She gulps, I see the movement of her throat because I'm watching her like a hawk. I move up behind her and take her hand steadily.

"Who are you, Vogue?" I murmur in her ear.

"My father's daughter," she says steadily, and I let her go as she leans down, ramming the evil knife into the betrayer's guts. "No one crosses my father and gets away with it," she snarls, the darkness taking her over completely.

There's a fucking visceral beauty to it—all that rage and pain she's been bottling up, spilling over. It paints her in a new light, one that's got the shadows coiling around her like they're embracing a long-lost friend. I watch as she pulls the blade free, her hand steady now, blood dripping from the steel and staining her gloves.

I whistle low, a sound of respect that breaks the heavy silence. "Your dad will be so proud," I mutter.

Harry chuckles darkly, clapping his hands together as if he's dusting off dirt when, in reality, it's probably a mix of grime and someone else's life that he's shedding. "We should've made him dig his own grave first."

"Well, fuck," I chuckle. "What a cock up. Who fancies starting us off?"

Vogue doesn't step back or recoil. She stands there, staring down at the guy gasping like a fish out of water, his life ending right before us. She's crossed a line tonight—one most people would run screaming from—and she did it without hesitating when push came to shove.

Quentin says, "I'll do it." His eyes have never left Vogue, nor my closeness to her. He is trying to figure out where he fits into our equation, but he doesn't realise that she is in love with him.

I wish I could say the same for me, but she is obsessed with me. I've given that to her, needing to see it in her eyes, needing that desperation for me. I've manipulated her emotions with a shitty blackmail technique that has her begging for me. It doesn't make me feel good to know the how of it, but it makes me feel like a fucking god when she turns those dead eyes to me and says, "You promised me something after this was done."

Returning her smile, I peel off my gloves and shove them into my back pocket. "Where do you want to go?"

She shrugs and removes hers as well. "Somewhere public where everyone can see us."

"You sure about that?" I murmur.

She nods. "Yes. I want people to see us having sex."

"I know just the place."

"You mean you're going to go and leave us to deal with this mess?" Harry asks, pissed off.

"I promised her," I state, flinging my arm around her. "So, sorry, boys. We'll see you back at home."

"Where are we going?" she asks as I lead her back to the SUV, I help her in and then drive off, heading back towards the city and a popular bar where it will be heaving with bodies. But I'm not going to take her inside. I'm going to fuck her on the bonnet of this car in the car park, where there will be no holding back.

As we pull into the crowded parking lot, the bass from the bar's music thrums through the air like a second heartbeat. Vogue doesn't flinch as she watches the crowd milling around, her eyes glinting with a dark hunger that matches mine.

I find a spot where everyone can see us and kill the ignition, and then it's just us and our rising breaths.

"Get out," I command, my voice rough with need.

Vogue complies, her movements confident and determined. She rounds the car to meet me at the front. Her eyes are wild, alive in a way I haven't seen before—the monster inside her has woken up completely now.

Pulling her to me, I push her up against the car. She pants when she realises we aren't going inside but right here. The bonnet is hot from the drive, so I keep her in front of me, my hands sliding down the zip on her jeans before I fumble with my pants and drag my cock out. Tugging her jeans down enough so I can wedge my painfully hard cock past her panties which I shove to the side, she gasps as I thrust into her. The sounds of the bar and its patrons fade away, and the only thing that matters is the way she feels wrapped around me—tight, hot, and perfect for driving a man insane.

People are starting to notice; their yells and hoots only fuel the fire that's raging out of control between us. This is possession laid bare for all to see.

Her fingers claw at my arms, her breath coming in ragged gasps that match the rhythm I set—a relentless pace driven by something darker than desire.

"Thayer," she moans, and the sound is fucking music to my ears.

"That's it, Vogue," I growl, nipping at her neck, marking her with teeth and tongue. "Show them who you belong to."

Her body trembles as she comes undone. Her climax triggers mine, and I press deep inside her as waves of release crash over us both.

We're a mess of sweat and sex in a car park filled with strangers who have witnessed this claiming.

I pull back slightly, just enough to look into Vogue's eyes. "You're mine," I say, my voice low and absolute.

She smiles, a wicked curve of lips that promises more sin in our future. "Always," she breathes out.

As our breathing slows and reality begins to seep back in, we straighten our clothes—foregoing any attempt at full decency—and laughing almost manically, we climb back into the SUV without a word and head for home.