Chapter 14 Lyra
LYRA
It's been four days, and I was doing better until he decided to call.
I didn't answer, so he called again. I stood there looking at it, a mixture of joy that I was standing firm, but also questioning why the phone was fully charged and not turned off in a drawer.
He stopped, and I went about my night. TV dinner and listening to screaming from my upstairs neighbors, at least it sounded like sex this time.
Then, as if he fucking knew, I got into bed and he texted.
Call me
I rolled my eyes and turned on my side, but sleep was the only thing that didn't come. I tossed and turned, going in and out of consciousness.
I protect what's mine
His words echo in my head, crawling under my skin. The audacity. The entitlement. The way his eyes darkened when he said it, like he actually believed it.
His?
Wrong.
At least my mind thought so. My body, on the other hand, betrayed me in that moment. I didn't even realize I'd clenched my thighs until they were sore. Damn pathetic. After everything I've been through, I'm still wired to want men like him.
The heat that curled in my belly when he grabbed me, it's like, how do you want to fight and fuck someone at the same time? How can you want two completely different things?
You're so messed up, I tell myself. Just get up already.
Twenty minutes later, I'm brushing my teeth, and the phone buzzes again.
Last time I'll ask
I spit toothpaste into the sink. "Screw you," I mutter, and turn the phone face down.
The apartment feels too small suddenly, like the walls are closing in. I need to get out. I need air that doesn't smell stale. I need space where I'm not waiting for that damn phone to ring again.
I pull on jeans and a faded gray hoodie, grab my wallet and keys, and head for the door. I tell myself I need groceries, but really, I just need to be anywhere but here, trapped with my thoughts of him.
The morning air is crisp, the streets wet from an overnight rain. I pull my hood up and shove my hands in my pockets, walking fast. My breath clouds in front of me as I walk.
Three blocks from my apartment, something shifts in the air. A prickle at the base of my neck. Years of living in constant danger have fine-tuned my senses, and right now, they're screaming.
I'm being followed.
You learn to clock a tail after years of being owned.
I don't turn around. Don't make it obvious I've noticed. Instead, I slow my pace slightly, listening for the footsteps behind me. They adjust, slowing to match. I speed up again. So do they.
My fingers curl around my key ring in my pocket as my heart rate kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral.
There's a grocery store ahead on the corner. I duck inside and grab a basket.
I pretend to browse, placing random items inside: apples, a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs. Through the gaps in the shelving, I watch the door.
He enters after me.
Dark coat. Mid-forties. Something about his eyes. I feel like I know them.
And then it clicks.
Albanian.
Not one I ever treated, but I know his face from a safehouse. The kitchen, maybe. Who knows, but I know I know it.
Why the fuck would he be here?
I move deeper into the store, turning down the cereal aisle, then peek around the end cap.
I catch his face as he scans the store, looking for me.
My fingers grip the phone in my pocket, then hesitate. What am I gonna do? Who am I going to call? Declan?
He wouldn't care.
I force myself to move calmly to the register, paying for my unnecessary groceries with shaking hands. The young cashier bags my items, completely oblivious.
"Is there a back exit?" I ask quietly.
She looks confused but points toward a hallway. "Through there, past the bathrooms. It leads to the alley, but it's kind of gross."
"Thanks," I say, grabbing my bags and heading that way.
The alley is narrow and damp, smelling of urine.
I hide behind a dumpster and wait, keys between my fingers like claws.
I wait.
Ten seconds.
Thirty.
A minute.
Nothing.
No one comes through the door after me.
Maybe I imagined it.
My brain starts thinking it wasn't anyone I've seen before. It's happened, twice.
Maybe I'm still so fucked up I see monsters everywhere, but I'd rather feel paranoid than stupid.
I hurry home, taking a winding route, doubling back twice to make sure I'm not being followed. By the time I reach my building, I've convinced myself it was just my mind playing tricks. Lack of sleep. Stress. The old fears. Still, my heart won't slow down.
I round the corner to my hallway, keys still in hand, and freeze.
Declan.
He's leaning against my door, arms crossed over his chest, his black jacket still damp from the weather outside. His face is firm, but his eyes burn when they meet mine.
"Seriously?" I say, moving forward again, refusing to show how he startled me.
"You didn't answer," he says, moving away from my door. "Figured maybe you forgot who pays you."
I walk past him, close enough that my shoulder brushes against him, and jam my key into the lock.
"Who paid me, remember? I'm done," I say, pushing the door open. "Now, I'm just ignoring you."
I try to slam the door in his face, but his foot shoots out, catching it before it closes. He shoves it open, and I stumble back a step.
"Get the fuck out of my space," I say, grocery bags still dangling from my arm.
"Not until we talk," he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
He walks up to me and takes my bags from me and drops them on the counter and turns to face me.
I cross my arms over my chest, not wanting to read too much into that gesture.
He doesn't move, just stands there, watching me with that penetrating gaze.
I hate that look. Hate how calm he is while I'm spiraling. Like he’s about to just casually ask me, ‘so honey what’s for dinner?’
"What do you really want?" I demand.
He hesitates, his eyes shifting, looking me up and down.
"I wanted to make sure something didn't happen to you," he says with those lustful eyes.
Oh, so this is what it's about.
Is this his game? Well, two can play that. I know exactly how to get men like him to shut up and get out of my face
"Bullshit. You don't care about me," I say, and walk right up to him, so close I can smell his cologne. I yank my hoodie off in one fluid motion and toss it aside.
"Is this what you're here for? Huh?" I continue.
I grab his hand and press it to my chest. "I know how this works.
Big bad mafia guy just expects every woman to spread their legs while you toss a few bills on the nightstand.
" I taunt, my voice sharp with anger. "Is that it?
What, you think I'll let you stick it anywhere you want for what you paid me to work?
" I lean in closer and in a low tone finish with, "Want me to moan your name while you fuck the girl who used to be property? "
He narrows his eyes.
I reach for his crotch, but he catches my wrist before I make contact.
"Or are you just here to remind yourself what power looks like?" I say.
His grip tightens on my wrist, and he pulls my hand away from him.
"Is this how you got away?" he asks, his voice dangerously soft. "Fucked your way up the Albanian ladder until they let you go?"
Silence falls between us, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of our breathing, harsh in the quiet apartment.
Then, without thinking, my free hand connects with his cheek in a slap that stings my hand.
His head barely moves with the impact, as his eyes slowly turn back to face mine. His hand shoots up, wrapping around my throat, rough and dominant.
His hand is warm. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Not like the others. Not like the Albanians.
He pulls me in and crashes his mouth against mine.
And fuck me, I let him.
His lips are soft but demanding, but the kiss is anything but. He's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's raw. His tongue moving against mine with a certainty that makes my knees weak.
And it's full of fury, passion, and everything we haven't said.
I should shove him away. Scream. Bite him. But I will myself back, drowning in it all.
His hand slides from my throat to cup my jaw, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. I taste him now. My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer even as my mind screams to push him away.
Then, abruptly, he pulls back. We're both panting, his forehead presses against mine, his eyes searching my face.
"I don't want a puppet," he says, his breath warm against my lips. "I've fucked things. Fucked distractions. Fucked to forget. I'm not here for that."
He releases me completely, stepping back.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold from my embarrassment. My lips tingle, and I hate myself for wanting his mouth back on mine.
"Well great, go find another distraction then," I say, my voice cold despite the fire racing through my veins.
"Already did," he responds, holding my gaze.
I stare at him, confused by his words, by the intensity in his eyes.
Then he turns toward the door, his hand on the knob.
"You're rehired. Answer your phone next time," he says, not looking back at me.
And then he's gone. I stand still for several seconds, listening to his footsteps fade.
Then I sink to the floor, knees pulled to my chest, and cry.
Not because I lost. I just thought I knew how to get what I wanted if I tried to play the game.
But not him. He didn't take the bait. And somehow, that broke me more than if he had.
Because for once, someone looked past the act. And walked away anyway.
I lick my lips, and I can still taste him on me.
And I don't know if I hate him more for kissing me or for not staying.