Chapter 109 Chapter One hundred and eight
ARA
Thayne’s men grabbed my arms gently but firmly, pulling me down the jet stairs and around the side of the fuselage.
I kept twisting, looking back over my shoulder, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I thought it might break free.
Munroe’s arm was bleeding, dark red soaking the sleeve of his jacket, but it wasn’t gushing. The bullet had grazed him, just deep enough to tear skin and muscle, not enough to drop him.
He stood upright, Glock steady in his good hand, the barrel trained on Thayne’s chest.
His face was twisted with anger, regret, and exhaustion all mixed together. He waved the gun as he talked, the motion jerky but deliberate.
“Just give up, Thayne,” his voice was wheezy. “You’re not a hero and you never will be. Aren’t you exhausted from hiding? From running? From pretending you can protect her forever?”
Thayne didn’t move. He stood in the open, his legs planted wide, the pistol still in his hand but pointed down at the tarmac.
His men had fanned out behind him, rifles up, but he raised his free hand in a sharp gesture, hold fire.
“Why don’t you pull the trigger and find out?” Thayne said, voice calm, almost bored. “Do it.”
Munroe’s finger tightened on the trigger. The gunshot cracked, sharp and deafening.
But Thayne had already moved. He’d tricked him.
One second he was standing still, the next he dropped low, rolling to the side in a blur of motion.
The bullet punched through empty air where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier. Thayne came up firing, two quick shots, controlled and precise.
The first hit Munroe’s shoulder, spinning him half around.
The second caught him in the thigh.
Munroe’s leg buckled, and he went down hard, the Glock skittering across the tarmac.
He whipped out a pistol from his belt and pointed it straight at me. Strong hands held my arms still so I wouldn't move.
Time slowed painfully. I started to scream, trying to get past the hands pulling me back.
I wanted to face Munroe, that son of a bitch. I slipped free and started moving.
“Munroe, you cocksucker!” I yelled. Thayne's jaw dropped.
“You're so weak you have to point your gun at a pregnant woman.” I taunted him.
“Hold her down!” Thayne ordered his men.
Strong arms looped around my waist, yanking me backwards and passing me from hand to hand.
Munroe laughed like a hyena on crack. “Fools! Hahahaaaaaa! Absolute fools!”
What was he talking about?
We looked around, and that was when we realized what had happened. We’d been distracted for seconds, maybe less, and that was all it took.
Men in orange coveralls, delivery uniforms, the same ones Thayne’s own team had been wearing, were walking away calmly, empty plastic gallons swinging from their hands.
Behind them, thin streams of gasoline trickled across the tarmac, spreading fast, merging into wider rivers that snaked toward us.
A wide pool had already formed around our feet.
The sharp, chemical smell hit me like a slap.
Panic erupted, screams from the crew on the jet stairs, shouts from Thayne’s men, boots pounding as they tried to move us, but there was nowhere to go.
The fuel was everywhere, a glistening, deadly carpet under us.
Munroe’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and cold.
“Now, where were we? I’m going to shoot their spot,” he said, nodding toward the nearest puddle, “and you’ll watch her burn.”
His trigger finger started to squeeze, and my chest squeezed along with it.
Nothing happened.
The hammer clicked, empty. In that moment, Thayne moved.
Despite the gasoline soaking his shoes, despite the risk of a spark from the muzzle flash, he raised his own pistol in one smooth motion.
“Thayne, no! Please!” I screamed, but hands covered my mouth, begging me not to distract him.
He shut one eye, sighted down the barrel, steady as stone.
One single tear slipped down his cheek, and the gunshot echoed. The bullet hit home, embedding itself between Munroe’s eyes.
He dropped back on the floor like a puppet with cut strings, his body crumpling onto the wet tarmac.
“Goodbye, traitor,” Thayne yelled, his voice raw and ragged.
Then, softer, so quiet I almost didn’t hear it over the ringing in my ears, he whispered,
“Go home, best friend. We could have been best buddies.”
The words hung in the air, and Thayne stood there for one heartbeat longer, his pistol still raised, his chest heaving up and down.
Then he lowered the gun, and his men swarmed in, fire extinguishers already spraying foam, shouting orders, pulling us back toward the jet stairs.
Thayne turned to me finally. As he walked toward me, he shed his shirt, the fabric falling away like dead weight, revealing the bruises and cuts that mapped his skin.
His eyes burned with tears I’d never seen in them before, the kind that come from a man who thought he’d lost everything and just realized it was still in his arms.
The moment he reached me, he lifted me off the floor as if I weighed nothing. My thighs wrapped around his waist instinctively, my ankles locking behind him.
His hands gripped my hips hard, his fingers digging in like he needed to feel I was real, solid, alive.
In the most broken voice I’d ever heard him use, he said, “Don’t ever lay down your life for me like that again.”
Then his lips crashed on mine. If Thayne was fire, then I wanted to burn in him forever.
He kissed me like he was trying to gain eternal life. His tongue pushed past my lips without asking, claiming every corner of my mouth, tasting the salt of my tears and the fear that still lingered there.
One hand slid up my back, fisting in my hair to angle my head exactly how he wanted it. The other arm banded around my waist, holding me so tight against his chest I could feel every frantic beat of his heart.
Suddenly we were moving, up the jet stairs, his long strides eating the distance, my body bouncing lightly with each step.
The crew gasped collectively when they saw us locked in that kiss. Never mind that he was already undressing me, his fingers tearing at the hem of my shirt, shoving it up over my breasts as he carried me through the cabin.
Whispers and shocked breaths followed us, but Thayne didn’t care. He didn’t even look at them.
He kicked open the door to the private bedroom at the rear of the jet and slammed it shut behind us.
He pressed me against the wall the second the lock clicked, his mouth never leaving mine. His hands yanked my shirt over my head, tossing it somewhere behind him. My bra followed, the hooks snapping open with one rough tug.
Cool air hit my skin, but his mouth was already there, hot and wet, closing over one nipple while his fingers pinched the other.
I cried out, my head falling back against the paneling, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Thayne—”
He growled against my breast, the vibration shooting straight to my core.
“I haven't said it enough, but I love you Arayna. I love you more than I've ever loved anything or anyone.”
Thayne had just confessed his love for me. Thayne, the cold hearted billionaire who'd kidnapped me as collateral for my Neil's debt. He just said he loved me more than he'd ever loved anyone.
But was it out of fear he'd confessed? Was it because I'd put myself in the path of Munroe's gun? Was this a wholehearted confession of love or a fear induced one?