Chapter 17 Declan
DECLAN
Itype out my latest text and hit send.
Lyra, this isn't fucking funny anymore. Where the hell are you?
I slam my phone onto the passenger seat, knuckles white against the wood-trim steering wheel. It's been two fucking weeks since Lyra disappeared.
Fourteen days. Twelve missed calls and just as many unanswered texts. On top of that, two voicemails, something I never leave for anyone.
My mind replays the night she vanished. The way she looked past me, distracted. Her bullshit excuse about a family emergency. The obvious lie in her eyes.
She's missed two fights and one of my guys got an infection because the replacement medic was a fucking joke. Cost me a fighter and one hundred and eleven grand in the process.
But that's not why I'm hunting her down like this. That's not why I can barely sleep, why I find myself checking my phone for a text that won't come.
At first, I tell myself she is just being dramatic. Maybe she needed space. That kiss stirred shit up. I figured she'd come back with that fire in her eyes.
But she doesn't.
And every day she stays gone, the irritation in my chest turns to something worse.
Worry.
A feeling I don't fucking like.
I send a guy to her apartment. I have him knock. No answer.
"Wait a day," I say. "Then park your ass out front and stay there. I want to know the second she walks back through that door."
And my lack of sleep is starting to show. I've been snapping at my fighters, barking at Callum. Even Keira clocked me two nights ago at dinner.
"You look like shit, Dec," she says, sipping her wine. "And you're acting moody this week, too."
"Fuck off."
"Jesus. It's the nurse, isn't it? It's got to be a woman."
I don't answer. But I don't deny it, either.
Now it's Thursday night. Another tournament. The fights are on. The warehouse is packed.
And I don't want to go inside.
I go between worry, anger and fear. It's fucking brutal and I hate it. I want to hate her for doing this, but I can't. In truth, I just want her to be okay. Even if I never see her again, I just want to know she's safe.
"Goddammit!" I yell, picking up my phone and getting out of the car. As I walk toward the entrance door, my phone rings.
It's Henry, the man I stationed outside her place.
"Yeah."
"Sir, she's back."
I stop dead in my tracks.
"What?"
"She's here, sir. Just walked inside."
"You sure?" I ask, turning and walking fast back to my car.
"Yes."
"Okay, stay there," I say, opening my door. "I'm on my way."
I zoom out of the parking lot, taking the corner too fast, tires screeching.
My heart pounds in my chest as I drive, knuckles white on the wheel. The dashboard clock reads 10:17pm. A tournament night, and I'm running away from it like the building's on fire.
For her.
Traffic lights blur past in streaks of red and green. I weave between cars, earning honks and shouts.
Is she okay?
The question pounds in my head with each heartbeat. Two weeks of radio silence, and now she just walks back into her apartment like nothing happened? Nah, fuck that. Something's wrong.
My mind cycles through possibilities, each worse than the last. Maybe she's hurt. Maybe she's running from something, or someone. The thought of someone putting their hands on her makes something deadly stir in me.
I slam on the brakes at a red light, nearly rear-ending a minivan. The soccer mom inside gives me a death glare.
Where the fuck did you go, Lyra? I think to myself, drumming my fingers against the wheel waiting for the light to hurry up and change.
Maybe she just needed space after that kiss. The memory of her lips on mine flashes back, the surprise, the heat, the way she looked like she'd been burned.
Green, finally. I punch the gas.
My heart pounds in my chest as I drive.
But two weeks? Without a word?
No. This isn't about the kiss.
I take a sharp left onto her street, checking the time again. 10:28.
And the worst part? The part that's eating me alive? I care too much. Way too fucking much. For a nurse. For an employee.
For a woman who clearly doesn't want anything to do with me.
So why am I racing across Boston like my life depends on it?
Why the hell does it feel like she took something from me when she left?
The answer doesn't come, but something else does; a realization that hits me like a fist to the gut.
I'm not just worried about her.
I'm scared.
Scared of what might have happened to her. Scared of what I'll do if someone hurt her. Scared of what I'll say when I see her face.
Scared of how much I need to know she's okay.
I slow as I approach her building, scanning the street. There, Henry's black sedan. I park crooked, blocking a hydrant.
Henry comes up to me. "She's still inside; she hasn't left."
I nod. "Stay here."
I take the stairs two at a time. My chest tightens.
Anger, relief, confusion, all of it a toxic cocktail burning through my veins.
I reach her door and knock.
No answer.
Knock again. Louder this time.
Still nothing.
Fuck this.
I step back, ready to kick the damn door in, when it suddenly swings open.
Lyra stands there, eyes wide, a gun raised and pointed directly at my chest.
"Jesus, Lyra—"
"Don't come any closer." Her voice is stone, but her hand trembles slightly.
We stand frozen, both breathing hard. The gun doesn't waver.
I catalog the changes in her: dark circles under her eyes, skin paler than usual, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
"You going to shoot me?" I keep my voice level despite everything I'm feeling simmering beneath the surface.
"If you don't shut up, I might." Her eyes dart past me to the hallway, then back.
"You disappeared for two fucking weeks," I say, lowering my voice. "Two. No calls. No fights. I thought—" I stop, not even sure what I was about to say. "Hell, I don't even know what I thought."
Her expression doesn't change, but that slight tremble in her hand, the fear behind the steel in her eyes, gives her away.
This isn't just her being defensive. This is terror.
"Someone came for you," I say, stepping forward.
"Don't come in," she says. "It's not… No, I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me. You don't answer doors with a gun unless you've been waiting for someone."
I step forward again, challenging her to pull the trigger. She doesn't back up.
"I had a reason for leaving."
"Yeah? Planning to share with the class, or just point guns at the people who give a shit?"
She hesitates.
The gun lowers. Just slightly.
"Why do you care?" she asks. "I'm not your problem."
"Look, I don't give a shit what I am to you." The words come out harder than I intended. "But I'm your fucking solution. So tell me what's going on."
I see the muscles in her face twitch; her eyes never leave mine. The gun lowers a bit more.
"I don't need protection," she says finally. "I've been fine on my own."
Something in me snaps. I move forward and grab the gun from her.
"Stop it," she says, trying to get it back.
"No, you stop with this 'I don't need anyone' bullshit," I say, not letting her grab the weapon. "Nobody navigates life alone. You think you're special? You're not. You're human. You need people, and whether you want to admit it or not, you need to trust."
Her lip trembles and a flash of something raw crosses her face, gone so quickly I almost miss it.
"Some of us don't get that," she says. "Some people aren't lucky enough to make it out with anyone left."
I hold her gaze as I tuck her gun in my waistband. I then walk past her into the apartment, deliberately turning my back on her. I shrug off my jacket, dropping it on a chair, and drop down onto her couch.
"What are you doing?" Her voice rises slightly.
"Camping out," I say, stretching my arms across the back of the couch. "I'm not leaving until I know what the hell is going on with my nurse. So, you've got three options. Talk. Sleep. Or ignore me."
The silence stretches between us and she just stands there, almost confused.
Then, finally, she shuts the door and looks at me.
"Fine. Sleep on the couch. I don't care."
I kick off my boots and stretch out, owning the space like it's mine. "Thanks, Nurse. Your hospitality's real warm and fuzzy."
She walks into the kitchen.
I hear water running. A glass hitting the counter.
Minutes pass.
She turns and comes back, silent. Not looking at me.
"Don't worry. I'm comfy," I say, voice deliberately casual. "Take your time."
She stops but doesn't look back.
"I'm not leaving," I say again, just to drive the point home.
"I know."
She walks to her bedroom and shuts the door. A few seconds later I hear the shower turn on.
I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling, which looks like it might cave in on us at any moment.
She came back. That should be enough.
But it's not.
Because now that I've seen her eyes, her hands, the way her voice cracked, I know something's coming for her.
And I swear to God, it'll have to go through me first.