Chapter 013 Lyra
Cillian’s still inside me, hard as steel even after two rounds, and I’m wondering if the man’s part machine. First he took me from behind, slow and deep until we both shattered. Then he flipped me over, pinned my wrists above my head, and did it again like he was trying to prove a point. Now he’s got his face buried in my neck, breathing hard, sweat cooling on his back under my palms.
He lifts his head. Those sharp blue eyes are still stormy, like he’s mad at me and confused about it at the same time. I get it—I’m confused too. If that was punishment for sneaking out, sign me up for detention every day.
“There’s a party here tonight,” he says, voice rough.
I blink. I’d noticed people hauling flowers and tables through the foyer earlier, but I figured it was just rich-people Tuesday. “Okay. I’ll keep Elara out of everyone’s hair. We’ll hide upstairs.”
“No.” He shifts his hips, and I bite back a gasp because hello, still very much connected. “You’re both attending. It’s New Year’s Eve. The whole thing slipped my mind—your fault, by the way.”
My fault? I almost laugh. I’ve been here all of three days and I’m already wrecking his schedule. That shouldn’t feel like a win, but it kind of does.
“You’ll be there,” he continues, “and you’ll stay until I say otherwise. I’d already booked a sitter through Tiny Treasures, but plans changed.”
“I can watch her—”
“You’re coming to the party.” End of discussion, apparently.
His tone is so clipped it’s starting to grate. One minute he’s growling “good girl” like it’s oxygen, the next he’s ordering me around like I’m an appliance he hasn’t decided where to plug in yet. The sex is unreal, but I’m not sure it balances out the frostbite.
“I don’t even have a dress that—”
“Someone’s coming to handle that. She might already be here.” He brushes a thumb across my lower lip, and just like that the frost melts a degree. “Use your words, Lyra.”
“I understand,” I manage.
“Good girl.” The praise hits low in my belly again. His whole face softens for half a second, and I have to fist the sheets to keep from reaching up to touch him.
“Don’t shower,” he adds, pulling out slow. I feel the warm rush of him leaving me and have to bite the inside of my cheek to stay quiet. He stands, gloriously naked and completely unbothered by it, and snatches the pink pack of pills off my nightstand.
“And don’t leave the property again.” His voice goes dangerously quiet. “You belong to me.”
The words hang there, heavy. I swallow. “Okay.”
“That’s not good enough.”
I search his face. Is this just control, or is there something else under it—something he doesn’t know how to say? “I belong to you,” I tell him. For now, my brain adds silently. I can’t make myself ask what we actually are.
“Good girl.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, gentle, almost tender. His shoulders loosen a fraction. Then he’s gone, walking bare-assed through the connecting door to his room, my birth control clenched in his fist.
I stare at the empty doorway. For someone who swears he doesn’t want kids, repeatedly finishing inside me and now stealing my pills is a heck of a mixed signal.
My phone alarm blares—ten minutes until Elara’s French lesson ends. I lunge for it, silence the thing, and see the family group chat blowing up.
Mom: Don’t forget it’s New Year’s Eve, sweetheart. We miss you.
Brother #2: Where even are you? Location says some mansion outside the city.
Brother #1: Sent a screenshot of my exact spot on the map. Of course he did.
Crap. I forgot we all share locations. Up until today that was fine—small-town life, everybody knows everybody’s business anyway. Now it feels like a blinking neon sign screaming I’M IN A RICH GUY’S BED.
I can’t tell them the truth. My brothers would drive up here in full hockey-goon mode and start swinging at anything in a suit. Mom would cry. Dad would lecture me about “situations.” So I do what I do best: half-truth, heavy deflection.
Me: Sorry!! Got called for a last-minute fill-in with Tiny Treasures tonight. Super fancy family, big party, long hours. Love you guys bunches!
I flip the location share off, toss the phone on the duvet, and flop back against the pillows. My butt’s still tender, thighs sticky, heart doing some complicated gymnastics routine. This is a job, I remind myself. A very well-paid, very naked job.
I drag myself up, throw on leggings and an oversized hoodie—definitely not party-appropriate—and hustle downstairs just as Elara bounces out of the music room.
“There’s a party!” she announces, eyes huge. “I totally forgot it was tonight.”
“Same, kiddo. You excited?”
“I’m excited to get dressed up.” She does a little twirl. “A lady came with dresses!”
She grabs my hand and tows me down the hall, past her room, into the guest suite opposite. A rolling rack stuffed with sparkly kid dresses stands in the middle like a rainbow exploded. A stylish woman in her forties waits beside it, smiling softly.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Lyra.”
“Sonja.” Her gaze flicks over me—sweaty hair, flushed cheeks, hoodie that smells faintly of sex. Professional as she is, I swear amusement flickers in her eyes. “We have plenty of time. Mr. Eve was very specific about your gown. It’s in the closet whenever you’re ready. I can pin anything that needs adjusting.”
Specific. Of course he was.
Elara’s already hugging a purple dress to her chest. “I love them all,” she wails dramatically. “How will I ever choose?”
Sonja laughs. “Mr. Eve said you could keep every one you like, but we’ll pick the perfect one for tonight.”
I drift toward the walk-in closet while they start negotiating sparkle levels. Hanging alone on a padded hanger is my dress—deep emerald silk, off-the-shoulder, fitted through the bodice then flowing into a soft sweep. Simple, elegant, expensive. Exactly the kind of thing that would make me look like I belong on his arm.
My throat tightens again.
Cillian spoils Elara rotten. New dresses, French tutors, whatever toy catches her eye. And the other night at dinner she’d looked up at him with those big eyes and said, clear as day, “I really want brothers and sisters someday.”
The pieces click together so hard I actually gasp out loud.
That’s it.
The inspections. The shaving. Coming inside me every single time. Taking my pills. This isn’t about me at all. It’s about giving his niece the one thing she asked for—a sibling. I’m just the convenient, paid womb.
I press a hand to my stomach, feeling suddenly, horribly small in the huge closet surrounded by all this luxury. I’m nothing more than an object for breeding.