Chapter 12 Lyra
LYRA
Ilook up at the ceiling, counting the shadows that dance across it from the streetlight outside. The neighbor's TV blares through the thin walls, some sitcom with canned laughter.
I'm bored.
And I love it.
I never knew boredom before. I was always busy.
Back then, my nights were filled with chaos.
Screaming. I'd be hunched over a half-conscious man, trying to stop all his blood from spilling out, or patching up a woman so broken inside, no number of stitches could hold her together.
There was always someone bleeding, always someone dying, always someone threatening what would happen if I failed.
Now, the murmur of voices and laugh tracks almost feels like a luxury.
It's been a week since Declan called. Seven days of silence from that black phone he gave me. Seven nights of checking it before bed, making sure the volume is up, the battery charged.
Not because I'm waiting for him to call.
I mean, I try not to think about him, but my mind has other ideas.
Not because I'm semi-intrigued by the whole brooding, green-eyed thing he's got going on, but because he's my payday.
Money. That's the only reason he's taking up more mental real estate than any mafia prince should.
That's what I keep telling myself anyway.
I turn onto my side, punching my pillow into submission. My tank top twists around my torso, and I yank it back into place.
Just the money.
The sitcom next door ends, and for a moment, there's blessed silence. Then a commercial starts up and I swear I hear the word luck, and my memories kick in.
Lucky. That's what the other girls called me when they found out. Lucky, in terms of how lucky someone sold to the mafia can be.
I remember the doctor's face when he told me I'd never have children. Straight-faced. Like he was reading simple lab results, not changing my whole future.
I remember the Albanian who was with me, his reaction even more. How he hurled a glass jar of Q-tips at the wall like it was the doctor's fault. How he yelled at me like it was mine. How his breath reeked of cigarettes.
I also remember the sickening feeling of realizing that his reaction wasn't because he cared about my loss, but because damaged goods are worth less.
"Now what the fuck do we do with you? What good are you? Huh?" he said to me in the car on the way back to their compound.
That was the night they tattooed the scalpel on my wrist and sent me to be trained as a fixer. The night they decided if I couldn't make money one way, I'd make it another.
Fast forward a few months and they gave me a new name, The Ghost Angel. That's what they started calling me after I saved a man everyone thought was dead. Brought him back from the brink with nothing but a sewing kit and cheap vodka.
Fuck, I hate that name. And that fucking tattoo.
I shut my eyes. Enough of that, I think, pulling the thin sheet up to my chin.
Sleep comes, but it's not peaceful.
A buzz pulls me out of the half-sleep I drifted into.
The phone buzzes on my nightstand, jolting me awake. It's the black one.
Declan.
My heart jumps as I fumble for it, squinting against the harsh blue light of the screen.
It's a text.
OPEN YOUR DOOR. HURRY.
What the hell?
I sit up, legs swinging over the side of the bed. The hallway to the front door stretches like it's longer than usual. Everything feels hazy, like I've stepped into another version of my apartment.
The peephole in my door has never been that large before, has it?
When I look through it, Declan's face fills the distorted circle, his features twisted with pain.
I unlock the door and pull it open.
He's a mess.
Split lip. Knuckles raw and bleeding. The way he's holding himself suggests bruised ribs, maybe worse. There's a dark stain on his shirt that could be blood.
"What the fuck happened, Declan?" I gasp.
He gives me a small smile. "You should see the other guy."
I open the door wider, and he stumbles forward. I catch him, slinging his arm over my shoulder. He's heavy, solid muscle that radiates heat. I feel the dampness of his shirt against my skin.
"Sit there," I say, pointing to the single kitchen chair I own.
He drops into it with a grunt, and I'm already moving, grabbing supplies from the cabinet. I lay out gauze, antiseptic, sutures, scissors, anything I think I might need. The motions are so familiar I could do them blindfolded.
"It looks like you reopened all your cuts," I say, inspecting his face. "Eyebrow's bleeding again. So is your lip."
He winces when I press against his side.
"Bruised ribs too?"
He shrugs. "Shit happens."
"You're an idiot."
I wet a cloth and clean the blood from his mouth. His lips are fuller than I remember noticing. My fingers hover for half a second too long.
I pull away and toss the cloth into the sink.
I move to his ribs next, eyeing the dark stain on his shirt. "Take this off. I need to see how bad it is."
Declan's perfect lips curve into a smile. "Is that the only thing you want me to take off?"
My hand finds the scissors. "Don't test me."
He flinches, eyes on the scissors. "Jesus, woman. What's with you and sharp blades?"
He tries to pull the shirt over his head but stops halfway, a pained grunt escaping him. I step closer.
"Hold still," I order, and start cutting.
The fabric parts easily, revealing his torso inch by inch. Smooth skin stretched over defined muscles, marked with tattoos I can't quite make out in the dim light. There's a large, darkening bruise spreading across his left ribs.
My mouth goes dry and I can't seem to swallow.
I clear my throat and press gently near the forming bruise.
"Here?" I ask.
He winces. "Yeah, okay, okay."
"Alright," I say, trying to keep my voice professional. "I've got you."
I crack an ice pack, feeling it grow cold in my hands, then press it against his ribs. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Hold this," I say.
He does, but then his hand slides over mine.
I freeze.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand. I don't pull away. Not at first.
Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us.
Finally, I break the contact first, reaching for the gauze. "I need to wrap you to keep it in place."
I lean in close, passing the gauze around his back, my chest nearly touching his as I work. Each time I reach around him, it brings us closer. His breath fans against my collarbone. His chest brushes mine. His scent fills my nostrils, making my pulse quicken.
As I bend down to secure the wrap lower on his abdomen, I catch him staring straight down my shirt.
Shit. I didn't put on a bra and my nipples are hard.
Heat rushes to my face. Is it the adrenaline? The cold from the ice pack? Or something else entirely?
I try to ignore it, focusing on the task at hand. But then his hand is on my wrist, stopping me.
"Lyra," he says, his voice lower than before.
When I look up, his face is inches from mine. His green eyes nearly black in the dim light. The hand on my wrist slides up my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
"Don't," I whisper, but I don't pull away.
"You're hurt."
I look at him, confused. "What? I'm not—"
His eyes drift down, and I follow his gaze to see a dark patch spreading across my shirt. Blood. But I don't feel any pain.
"I don't understand," I whisper.
The room shifts. Blurs. When everything comes back into focus, I'm the one sitting in the chair. The kitchen's darker now. Different.
Declan towers over me, his face a mask of concern that doesn't match the hungry look in his eyes.
"Let me help you," he says, voice humming in my ears.
He reaches for my shirt.
"Declan, wait—"
The rest of my words die in my throat as his fingers brush against my skin, leaving trails of heat. Before I can think, he lifts the shirt up and over my head and I don't stop him.
The cool air hits my bare breasts as I sit topless, exposed. His eyes devour every inch of me.
I instinctively cross my arms to cover myself.
"I'm fine, really," I say, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.
Declan's hands wrap around my wrists. His grip is firm as he pries my arms apart, exposing me to his gaze. My breasts rise with each deep breath, nipples aching now. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I don't fight him. I can't. Something in me doesn't want to.
"Don't hide from me," he says, eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin.
I should be cold, sitting half-naked in my kitchen chair, but heat floods through me. His fingers trace the outline of a bruise on my ribs that wasn't there before, a mirror image of his own injury.
"See?" he says, voice thick. "You need fixing too."
He drops to his knees in front of me, his hands sliding up my thighs. I watch, breath caught in my throat, as he examines me like I'm one of his fighters. No, like I'm something more precious.
"What are you doing?" I manage to ask.
"You hide pain so well, Lyra," he says. "But I see it."
His fingers find the scalpel tattoo on my wrist, the mark of my captivity. I try to pull away, I always hide it, but I can't. Then he does something no one has ever done before. He brings my wrist to his lips and kisses the tattoo, eyes never leaving mine.
My stomach tightens as his lips then travel up my arm, across my shoulder, to the hollow of my throat where I feel like I'm on fire. His hand cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple, and I gasp.
"Who takes care of you, beautiful?"
"I don't need—"
"Liar." His tongue licks my neck. "Everyone needs something."
He then takes both my wrists in his and reaches behind me, grabbing a roll of gauze.
The white fabric unspools between his fingers as he wraps it around my wrists once, twice, tight.
"What are you doing?" I breathe.
"Fixing you." His voice is darker now, his jaw set.
I don't stop him. I just look at him as he binds my hands together.
He finishes binding my wrists, then lifts them to his mouth and kisses the gauze.
Then he spreads my thighs.
I gasp as he kisses along the inside of my leg. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses all the way up until his nose brushes the hem of my shorts.
"Let me see," he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband.
My breath catches. "You've seen enough."
"No," he growls. "Not even close."
I lift my hips without thinking and he drags my shorts down my legs, leaving me in nothing but soaked cotton underwear. Declan stares at the wet fabric and I know I should be embarrassed. I should push him away. Instead, I start to look at him the same way he's been looking at me.
"Stand up," he commands.
I do, and he slowly pulls my panties down. Instantly, I step out of them and he tosses them to the side.
"Fucking perfect," he says under his breath.
"Spread your legs," he says, and I obey.
He leans in and drags his tongue from my entrance up to my clit in one long, slow stroke.
"Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" he asks. "To taste you?"
Before I can answer, his mouth is on my clit again. Kissing, licking, sucking, everything so fucking perfectly.
My knees feel weak and I take my bound hands and grab his hair, pulling his face against me.
I arch my back, widening more, giving him full access.
And then, he feasts.
There's no other word for it.
He eats me like he owns me. Like this is his reward and his punishment all in one. His hands grip my thighs, keeping me spread, while his mouth drives me insane.
He slides one finger into me and his tongue works me over.
Loud moans escape my lips no matter how hard I try to contain them.
Another finger slides in and I grip his hair tighter as his fingers slide in and out of me, stretching me.
He stands without removing his fingers and walks me backward until my back hits the wall.
He leans down and licks and sucks on my nipples. I try to free my hands to grab him, but I can't. He takes his free hand and pins them up over my head and he continues fingering me.
"You're mine now," he growls against my neck. "My nurse. My fixer."
His words should repulse me. I've spent years ensuring I belong to no one. But in this moment, with his body pressed against mine, I want to be his. Just for now. Just for tonight.
He curls his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes me cry out. His thumb circles my clit as he works me, building pressure that threatens to shatter me.
"Come for me," he demands. "Let me see what you look like when you break."
He leans in to kiss me, and I move forward, desperate for his lips, but he pulls away and smiles.
"Next time you see me, tell me you want this," he says and leans forward to whisper in my ear. "Tell me you want me."
His fingers speed up, and my orgasm builds. I can feel electricity running through me, my body tightening.
"I'm going to come," I say.
He pulls my hair and starts to speak but I can’t hear it.
Confused, I open my eyes and he fades away, and hear laughter.
I blink and I'm in bed, my neighbor's stupid TV blaring through the walls.
I sit up and look around. I grab the phone. No calls, no texts. It's 1:45 a.m.
I'm hot, almost sweating. My nipples are hard and, yep, squeezing my thighs, my panties are soaked.
Did I just have a fucking wet dream about Declan?
I'm too worked up to even comprehend what that means. All I can think is what's going on with me. Either way, I’m too tired to even care right now.
I lay back and slide my hand under my panties and finish what he started. I'll figure out the reason in the morning.