Chapter Five
Killian
It’s a beautiful thing, Lyra’s resistance. Watching it unfold, watching her constantly fight herself and lose, is the best entertainment I’ve had since she abandoned me.
I expect her to drift off at some point in the car ride, but she doesn’t. Instead, she shifts ever so slightly when she thinks I’m not paying attention, trying to find a comfortable position.
There isn’t one. I spanked her hard, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
To call her recent actions bratty would be an understatement; more accurately would be begging for punishment.
She knew I’d find her, eventually, and she knew I’d punish her for having the gall to run away from me, not to mention her cute attempt at ruining my career.
The thing is, if I were a lesser man, it would’ve worked.
If I didn’t have contingencies upon contingencies planned, if I hadn’t spent the last decade racking up favors from every board member, politician, and businessman of note, her article would’ve destroyed me.
The stunt she pulled put me on thin ice in The Eyes, and people I previously considered allies have begun to distance themselves.
That’s the most lasting effect of the blow she struck, and it’ll take some time to recover.
But I will recover. And she’ll be by my side, taking my hand or belt on her ass and cock in any hole I choose for the rest of her life.
When we start nearing the outer edges of the city, I turn to examine my Little Bird. She has a look that can only be described as utterly crestfallen and deeply afraid. Her vulnerability is so palpable, it almost makes me want to pull her onto my lap and reassure her that everything will be fine.
But it’s not time for that yet. I don’t know when it’ll be time for that; maybe in a few days, weeks, or months.
It’s entirely dependent on her behavior.
The sooner she accepts me, the sooner the time will come when our relationship evolves into one where I spoil the hell out of her, and we start happily building a family.
Well, I intend to get to work on the building-a-family part soon. She’ll get on board when she gets on board; it won’t change my timelines.
I see her shift again in my periphery, wincing. I allow a small smile to play over my lips. I went relatively easy on her this time around; it could’ve been much, much worse. But tempering my darkest impulses will do me favors in the long run.
That was my mistake last time, I suppose.
I didn’t hold myself back, because I didn’t think it would ultimately matter.
I didn’t take her wants, needs, or feelings into consideration as much as I should’ve.
I didn’t afford them the weight they deserved, and I paid for that mistake in full. I don’t intend to repeat it.
Lyra starts twirling a lock of her hair between her fingers. I resist the urge to fist it, yank her head back, and devour her mouth. All in good time. Now that I have her, I can afford to take it slow.
Her tension visibly builds as we finally get into the city, winding through the avenues and streets. Her breathing begins to speed again, and her shoulders start trembling. I don’t make any comment or attempt to console her.
I say nothing as Locke parks outside of my apartment building. Nothing as I lead her in with a hand wrapped around her arm. I’m silent as we ride the elevator up to the penthouse, pretending I don’t notice the way her trembling intensifies.
“You’re familiar with the layout?” I ask pleasantly as we step out of the elevator, and into my lair.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to orient myself.” Her words are a mumble. Her earlier blush has disappeared; now, she looks quite pale.
“Dinner’s in an hour,” I say, checking my watch. I have some work to get done before then, though I’m loathe to part from her even for a moment.
“Which guest room will be my prison?”
“It’s only a prison if you see it as such. I can take you out any time you’d like.”
“I’m never showing my face in public again.” Her tone is resigned, as if this is a fact she’s come to terms with. I know where the insecurity stems from, and it’s a silly reason to become a hermit.
“The video was up for less than a day,” I say. “Any remaining versions of it are heavily pixelated and obscured, so it’s impossible to tell who it’s about. It was also discredited as AI—”
“I don’t care about your excuses.” Now, she sounds angry. “I’m not fucking showing my face in public again.”
I examine her, searching for cracks in her position. “That might be difficult, considering we have a dinner to attend next week.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question,” I clarify. My phone starts buzzing, and I glance down at it, brows furrowing when I glimpse the caller ID. Not good.
“Actually, you may end up having to eat alone. I’ll have my housekeeper get you settled. I have to go.”
“You’re… leaving?”
I look up at her confused, small tone. “Would you like me to stay?” I wouldn’t be able to even if she said yes, but it would feel good.
She catches herself quickly. “No.”
“Mm.” I smile, reaching forward to stroke a few strands of hair from her forehead. “How’s your ass?”
“In pain, you—”
“Don’t finish that sentence. I don’t have time to punish you right now.” I rub my thumb over her bottom lip. “You’ll find arnica cream in our bathroom. Apply generously.” I touch my forehead to hers, taking a moment to breathe her in, turn, and leave.
It’s not often I get summoned to speak directly with a member of The Eyes more senior than myself. I expect it has something to do with the moves Silas has been making behind the scenes.
He invites me to a nondescript, underground speakeasy he owns in West Harlem.
It’s a quiet place, not named on any maps, and I’m reasonably certain he keeps it for moments just like this.
A security guard at the front leads me to a private elevator, which spits me out in a cavernous basement hallway leading to an office.
The lights are dim. The room is filled with an eeriness. If I were easily shaken, I’d be very worried right about now—but I happen to be meeting with the only man I could really refer to as a loose ally in the eyes.
He’s an older man, somewhere in his sixties, with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair and a permanently stern expression. He also has a controlling stake in almost every media and telecom outlet in the world, making him a formidable force to be reckoned with, and extremely valuable friend to have.
“Vega,” he greets me, beady eyes empty of emotions.
“Herald,” I return, referring to him by his chosen honorific in The Eyes. “How may I help?”
“Fix yourself a drink and take a seat.” He motions to the bar cart in the corner of the room. “You’ll need it.”
Well, then. I pour myself a scotch and pretend to get comfortable across from him. I’m not, of course, but there’s no use in showing my apprehension.
“Silas has been making friends,” he begins.
I nod. “It would seem so.” Rather than permanently beating him down, what I did to him nearly half a year ago seemed to knock some sense into him.
He started being somewhat strategic, which makes me almost certain that he’s not acting alone.
Silas doesn’t have enough braincells to play a good game of chess; his entrance to The Eyes, and his ability to get any power whatsoever, was purely based on inheritance.
“You may know, but you don’t know,” Herald says. “Bull is backing him.”
I tilt my head to the side. That is indeed a curious development. Bull is the global banker out of us; he controls the stock markets. My previous friendliness with him is precisely why I’ve known exactly where I should invest.
What would make him jump ship? He’s not known for developing close alliances; he’s quite the lone wolf. Very protective of his money and reputation.
“Alright,” I drawl. “Your point being?”
“You erred in extracting a pound of flesh from Silas. You erred all the more by doing so over a woman.” He says woman derisively enough to make my blood simmer.
“Not just any woman.” I keep my tone carefully calm, my expression wiped clean of emotion. “My fiancée.”
“Yes, the fiancée who disappeared? Who you’ve only just gotten a hold of… today?”
It takes some effort not to tense. Is he having me watched? More importantly, are The Eyes watching me closely? Senior members are usually exempt from surveillance. At least, they should be exempt. If I’m under surveillance, that means I’m under a good deal of suspicion for… something.
That could shape up to be a big fucking problem.
“Threat level?”
“Up in the air. For now, controlled. If Silas manages to build a coalition against you…” he lets the implication land.
I still don’t regret what I did to Silas one bit.
“If my request to have him killed goes through, this’ll all be moot.”
“That’s the problem. The council is leaning towards denial, on account of the fiancée he supposedly attacked running away from you, as well.”
“She didn’t run away from me. She took a break from—”
“Spare me your bullshit, please. I don’t have time for it. You’ll need to try a lot harder to make your story believable, because from all angles, it would appear that she did cut and run away from you.”
“I can mitigate the damage.” Hopefully. Having her on my arm, playing the doting fiancée at every opportunity, should go quite a long way. The Eyes can suspect all they want; there needs to be hard proof for them to take action against me. I’ve been too useful to be easily discardable.
“You can, yes. Whether you’ll be able to is up for debate.”
I take another sip, even as I try to calculate variables. I’ll need to keep Lyra in line, and have her out in public regularly far sooner than I’d intended. That’ll take threats. Threats will extend the timeline of her warming up to me.
Of course, she doesn’t have to be warmed up to me, but I’d prefer it if she were. I don’t want her to be an empty shell, a doll I can do whatever I want with. I want her fire, her fight.
How do I preserve that while getting her in line?