Chapter 3 - Blood on the MarbleThe silence that followed the muffled thud downstairs was heavier than the explosion itself. In the forty-second-floor suite, the air felt thin, electric with impending violence.
Simone didn't let go of his hand. Her fingers, fragile as dried leaves, gripped his skin with an intensity that defied her physical decay. "They're here for you, aren't they?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, yet every syllable cut through the ambient hum of the medical monitors.
Thorne didn't look back at the door. His eyes remained fixed on her face, mapping the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the faint blue veins beneath her temples, the quiet resilience in her dark eyes. "They are looking for a weakness," he said, his tone chillingly flat. "They think they found one."
"Are you going to let them in?"
"No one gets past the forty-first floor," Thorne said softly, a promise carved in stone. "No one."
A sharp chime echoed from the encrypted comm-link clipped inside Thorne's lapel. He didn't break eye contact with Simone as he pressed it.
"Sir," Kane’s voice came through, remarkably calm despite the sounds of a firefight raging in the background. "Cross made it past the secondary security checkpoint. He’s taking the private freight elevator straight up to the penthouse foyer. He has three men with him. Heavy ordnance."
Thorne’s jaw clenched. A muscle ticked sharply along his jawline. "Did you use the gas?"
"Ventilation was rerouted," Kane replied curtly. "They’re wearing military-grade respirators. We’re holding the stairwell, but they’re moving fast."
"Let them take the elevator," Thorne ordered, a dangerous, cold calculation flashing in his eyes. "Let them step out onto the marble."
"Understood."
The line clicked dead.
Thorne finally released Simone’s hand, though the lingering warmth of her skin seemed to burn against his palm. He walked over to the corner of the room where a loose panel in the wainscoting concealed a biometric wall safe. He pressed his thumb against the scanner; the heavy steel plate hissed open, revealing a matte-black modular carbine and two spare magazines.
Simone watched him from the bed, her breath coming in shallow, measured gasps. She didn't scream. She didn't beg him to hide. She just watched him arm himself, her expression a mix of sorrow and grim acceptance.
"If I die of this thing inside me," she said softly, nodding toward her chest, "and you die out there in the hall... Sunny is going to be very confused."
Thorne stopped, the heavy weapon halfway out of the safe. He turned his head slowly, looking at the golden dog, who was now snoring softly, completely oblivious to the war outside the door. A rare, ghost-like twitch of a smile touched the corner of Thorne's lips.
"Sunny will be fine," Thorne said, his voice dropping an octave. "Kane will take him. Kane is a soft touch, even if he pretends to be a machine."
"And you?" Simone asked, her eyes searching his. "Are you a machine, Thorne?"
He looked down at the gun in his hand, then back at her. "I used to be," he murmured. He walked back to the bed, leaned down, and for the first time, pressed a brief, hard kiss against her forehead—right where her hair parted, smelling faintly of lavender soap. "Wait here."
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He turned on his heel, stepped out into the hallway, and pulled the heavy oak door shut behind him. He threw the heavy brass deadbolt from the outside.
The corridor was long, sterile, and flooded with cold white light. At the far end, the private brass doors of the freight elevator gave a soft, pneumatic ping.
