Page 69 of Thorne
JULIANNA
Thorne'sacross the room in two strides. Before I find my feet, his hand is around my throat, not crushing, not a killing grip, just the specific pressure of a man showing me how much restraint he's currently spending. He slams me back against the stone.
"What did I tell you?" He roars the words, his face inches from mine. "I told you she was off-limits. I find you whispering through a goddamn door?" The operational register has burned completely away. What's underneath it is something completely new.
"She came to me and asked for help," I fire back. "I didn't ask her to come here. I couldn't ignore her. She was upset about her numbers. I was just helping her."
He stops, his hands frozen. His eyes are dark, lethal pits. "How would you know a damn thing about how to help my daughter?"
"Because I know what it is like to feel stupid." My voice drops, the confession quiet and raw. "That's why I talked to her. We're wired the same."
Something moves through his face. Dark and fast, then gone before I can name it.
"You don't get to fix her." His eyes are dark with volatile rage. "You're the architect of the nightmare. You're evil incarnate." He lunges, his hand catching my jaw and tilting my head back so hard my neck cracks. "And she is nothing like you," he snarls. "She's innocent. She's pure. And you're …"
"Evil," I fire back, the adrenaline finally overriding my survival instinct. I lean into his grip, my chest heaving against his.
The air between us is thick, charged with a friction so intense it feels like it might spontaneously combust. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, a touch that is bruising and possessive all at once. His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes, burning with a hatred that looks exactly like desire.
"You think you're so smart," he grinds out, shoving me harder into the cinder block. My spine hits hard—breath punching from my lungs—but I don't break eye contact. I arch into it. Into him. "You think you can slide into her head and then mine? You're a virus."
The air snaps. Too hot. Too close.
One spark away from detonation.
His thumb drags along my jaw—hard enough to sting, slow enough to feel intentional. Claiming. Testing.
My pulse jumps. I tilt my chin up, giving him better access, daring him to take it further.
"I know what I am." My voice comes out wrecked, but steady. Hungry. "I should burn for what I've done. If I'm so toxic—if I'm such a monster—then just fucking do it." My fingers curl in his shirt, dragging him down, forcing him to feel the tremor running through me. "Stop with the growls. If you want to punish me—" I lean in, mouth brushing his. "—then do it."
Silence slams down. Heavy. Suffocating.
Then his arm moves—not toward me—past me.
His fist slams into the cinder block beside my head.
The crack echoes. Dust shakes loose.
I don't flinch.
I surge forward.
The violence hits the air like lightning—and I lean into it, breath tearing out of me in sharp, uneven pulls. The shock of it doesn't scare me.
It feeds something darker.
Something that answers him.
We freeze there, both of us breathing hard, the aftermath vibrating through the space between us. He bows his head, forehead pressing to the wall, shoulders tight, trembling with restraint.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his knuckles bleeding, his expression shattered.
"God, I hate you." The words are a ragged, barely audible breath against my lips.
I don't back down. I don't soften.
I lift my chin again. Step into him. Close the last inch he left.
