Chapter 007 Lyra
I’m perched on the edge of the bed, towel knotted tight around me, staring at the door Cillian disappeared through like it might sprout fangs. Did that actually happen? I’ve been replaying it on a loop since I stepped out of the shower—his hands on my thighs, his voice low and steady, the way he looked at me like I was something he already owned. The longer I sit here, the more it feels like a fever dream. Except dreams don’t leave you bare between your legs.
I loosen the towel and glance down. Smooth. Completely smooth. I did exactly what he told me to do, and there’s this stupid little flutter in my chest hoping he’ll notice. Hoping he’ll say it again—good girl—like it’s the only praise I’ve ever wanted. God, what is wrong with me?
I should be furious. I should be packing my trash bags and marching out the door. Instead I’m sitting here wet just thinking about how I spread my legs for him without even a real fight. When his hands stopped moving, I was disappointed. Actually disappointed. My stomach flips at the memory.
A knock jolts me upright. My heart slams against my ribs—then I remember Cillian doesn’t knock. He just walks in like he owns the air in the room.
“Who is it?”
“Niles. You’re late for dinner.”
“Oh crap.” I leap up, towel nearly slipping. “Sorry—I’ll be right down!”
I scramble into the black pants and turtleneck I’d set aside earlier. They feel too heavy now, like armor I’m not sure I’m allowed to wear. One quick glance in the mirror—hair still damp, cheeks flushed—and I’m out the door.
Niles waits at the bottom of the stairs, expression neutral as ever. “This way. Formal dining room tonight.”
“I’m eating with them?” I ask, hurrying to keep up.
“With Mr. Eve and Ms. Elara.”
“Not you?”
His brows pinch like I’ve asked if the sky is green. “No.”
So I’m the only staff member invited to the family table. The thought sours in my stomach. Do all the employees get inspected? Or just the ones who sleep in the boss’s bedroom?
“You’re late,” Cillian says the second I step into the dining room. His gaze slides over my clothes, slow and deliberate, and I swear the temperature climbs ten degrees.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. My tongue darts across my lips. “I was in the shower. The… task you gave me took longer than I expected.”
His eyes darken. I wonder if he’s picturing it—me in the steam, razor in hand, trying to get every inch perfect for him. The thought makes me shift in place.
“Sit.” He gestures to the head of the table. He and Elara are seated across from each other, leaving the end spot open.
“At the head?” I squeak.
“We both wanted to sit by you,” Elara says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
My heart melts a little. “That’s really sweet.” I slide into the chair as Cillian stands to push it in for me. His fingers brush my shoulders—just a graze, but it’s enough to make me shiver.
The table is ridiculous: gleaming silver, crystal glasses, baked chicken stuffed with something herby and amazing, mashed potatoes fluffy enough to float away, asparagus arranged like it posed for a magazine. I pick up the fork and realize it’s actually heavy silver. Of course it is.
“It looks wonderful,” I say.
“I love chicken nuggets,” Elara announces, “but Chef Carl makes the yummiest grown-up food.”
I laugh—a loud, embarrassing snort that echoes off the chandelier. My family always teases me they could find me blindfolded in a stadium by that laugh alone. “You’re not wrong. Sometimes you just need a Happy Meal.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, grinning.
I sneak a glance at Cillian. He’s quiet, cutting his chicken with precise movements, watching us like he’s cataloging every word. I sit up straighter under his stare.
Elara peppers me with questions between bites. When I tell her I have four older brothers, her eyes go round.
“Four!?”
“Yep. I’m the baby.” Probably why I’m still a virgin, honestly. Growing up in a small town with four hockey-playing brothers meant no guy ever looked twice. College was supposed to be freedom, but I never quite figured out how to talk to boys without tripping over my own tongue.
“I always wanted siblings,” Elara says quietly, pushing the last piece of chicken around her plate.
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. I have no idea how to answer that.
“Uncle Cillian doesn’t want kids,” she adds.
“I never said that,” he cuts in, calm but firm.
Elara gives him a look I’d never dare. “Before me, did you want kids?”
He pauses, knife and fork still. “Before you, I had no plans for children.” His voice stays even, almost gentle. “But people change their minds. I didn’t predict having a child in my life, and now I can’t imagine it without you.”
Elara beams. My chest tightens. He could’ve shipped her off to boarding school with all his money. Instead he kept her. He cares—maybe he doesn’t say it pretty, but he shows it.
“Do you want kids?” she asks me.
“I love kids,” I say. “Being the baby of the family, I think I’m still half kid myself.”
“So yes?”
“One day,” I laugh.
Her eyes light up like she’s just solved a puzzle. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Cillian says before I can open my mouth.
The single word cracks across the table. Silence drops like a curtain. He clears his throat, softer this time. “Have you had enough to eat?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Elara, head upstairs and start getting ready for bed.”
“I’ll help—” I start to stand, but Cillian’s hand settles on my forearm, warm and immovable.
“We’ll be up shortly,” he tells her.
Elara glances between us. “Are you going to talk about adult things?”
“Yes.” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth—just for her. “Take your plate to the kitchen, then steal a brownie on your way up. Carl thinks he hid them behind the flour.”
“Score!” She grabs her plate and bolts.
The door swings shut behind her.
“Lyra,” Cillian says, voice low again.
“We should talk,” I blurt. Bad idea, probably, but the room feels too small with just us. “I was thinking about Elara’s room. Maybe let her pick paint or decorations? Make it feel more like hers.”
“Have at it.” He doesn’t even blink. “Now let’s talk about your tardiness.”
My pulse spikes. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Are you?” His thumb strokes once across my wrist. “I think we should find out just how sorry you truly are.”