Chapter 18 Lyra
LYRA
My mind won't shut off. Sleep refuses to come. I've rolled onto my side, onto my back, even my stomach. Nothing works.
It's all because I feel like I can hear him breathing from the living room.
Who the hell does he think he is, just deciding to stay like that? Breaking into my space, taking my gun, making himself at home on my couch like I invited him.
Like I need him.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, where a water stain spreads.
And yet, I don't hate that he's here per se.
A part of me feels relieved he's here. Not because I trust him.
Not because I think mafia princes are built for protecting broken girls like me or that men like Declan Killaney actually care about others.
I'm not that naive. But I make him money.
I fix his fighters. Maybe that's enough incentive for him to at least stop the Albanians from putting a bullet in my head.
It's a business arrangement. Nothing more.
I squeeze my eyes shut and see her face.
Three days ago, I stand outside another restaurant, watching. My sister is inside, laughing with that same man I saw her with before.
I take a little solace in how happy she looks. Normal. Untouched by the ugliness of my world.
I watch for seventeen minutes before forcing myself to leave. Each second I stay increases the risk of her seeing me, the ghost sister, risen from the grave.
I mean, what do you say to someone who buried you?
My sister fades and Declan's words claw at me.
"Nobody navigates life alone… You're human. You need people..."
He doesn't get it. Every girl I got close to while working for the Albanians was either killed or taken one night and never seen again.
Ana. Katya. Sabrina. Tatiana. After a while, I stopped learning names. Stopped making eye contact. Stopped caring.
I have to be alone to survive. Right or wrong, it's my life. I've forced myself to be alone and like it for so long I don't know any other way.
But now he's here.
And if I'm completely honest with myself, which I rarely am, I don't know of any other man who would stay to protect me like Declan is, even if it's just to make sure his precious medic who fixes his fighters and his stupid pretty face is safe.
I sigh and push back the blanket.
I should at least check on him.
The floor creaks under my bare feet. The apartment is dark except for the yellow glow of a streetlamp coming through the window.
Declan lies on my couch, shirtless, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting on his stomach.
In the darkness, I can see every damn sexy quality about the arrogant asshole: his tattoos, the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers.
I see some scars, too, that I never noticed. One across his ribs, another on his shoulder.
His face is different in sleep. Gentler. The hard lines around his mouth softened. No trace of the cocky smile, though I kind of like it now. He looks almost peaceful.
"Are you watching me sleep?"
I nearly jump out of my skin. His eyes are still closed, but that damn smile plays at his lips.
"What? No. I was—" I turn toward the kitchen, fumbling for the light switch. "Water. I was getting water."
"Sure." He sits up, the blanket falling to his waist. The muscles in his shoulders flex with the movement. "Like what you see?"
I laugh, aiming for casual dismissal but landing somewhere between nervous and breathless. "You wish."
In the kitchen, I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water that I don't want. I commit to the thought, and drink it anyway.
I feel his eyes on me, following every movement. Heat crawls up my neck.
I turn and look at him, thinking of what to say.
"How's your cut doing?" I ask, noticing he's not wearing a bandage over the wound above his eyebrow.
He reaches up and rubs it absently. "It's fine."
"And no more injuries since I've been gone?"
"No," he says, his voice rougher than before. "My nurse was missing."
I scoff, setting my glass down. "I wasn't missing."
"I didn't know where you were," he says. "That's missing."
That does it. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, two weeks of fear, exhaustion, and paranoia boiling over.
"Okay, look, cut this shit," I say sternly.
"Don't come here, show up and act like this big tough guy who gives a fuck about where I was, stay here for whatever reason you have, and then say I'm missing because you didn't know where I was.
You only care so I can make you money. Don't pretend. It's not right. Just stop."
Declan tosses the blanket off himself, and he's on his feet in a flash, rushing toward me in nothing but black boxer briefs. The sudden movement startles me and the intensity in his eyes makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
I try to move, but there's no place to go. I was leaning against the counter when I went off on him, and now I'm trapped between cold laminate and six foot four inches of furious, half-naked man.
"You think that's why I'm here?" His voice is low, dangerous. "Because you patch up my fighters?"
I shift and try to get away and he grabs my wrist and pulls me back, pinning me against my refrigerator. His body cages mine, the heat of him burning through my clothes, his scent filling my lungs.
His eyes are molten fire.
"Let me—"
I can't finish my words.
Suddenly, he leans in and kisses me. Just kisses me. Out of nowhere. No warning.
His lips are softer than they look, and the rough stubble of his face gently scrapes my chin. For a millisecond, I'm paralyzed, caught between shock and something that makes my stomach drop and my knees weak.
This isn't like the dreams. This is real. His mouth. His hands. His heat.
I snap out of it, twisting my face away.
"What the fuck?" I say and shove him. "Get off me."
And I don't mean to, but out of reflex, my survival mode takes over. My palm connects with his cheek in a sharp slap. It doesn't even faze him.
His eyes never leave mine. I see the red mark my hand left on his face, see the muscle in his jaw twitching.
Before I can even move, he comes at me again and kisses me. This time it's slower, more deliberate, his hand sliding up to cup my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone with unexpected gentleness.
I freeze. Rage and heat swirl in my stomach.
And then, somehow, I'm kissing him back.
I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him.
My body betrays me as warmth pools in my belly. His other hand moves to my waist, gripping my hip.
I push him off, chest heaving, trying to regain some control. He looks at me, eyes dark with hunger, and lifts me and tosses me onto the couch like I weigh nothing.
The cushions barely absorb the impact before he's on me.
His hands roam. His mouth devours.
He pulls my hair back, forcing me to look at him.
"Tell me to stop," he says. "Tell me that for the past two weeks, you haven't thought about me. About doing this."
My heart pounds hard in my chest. I open my mouth to lie, to tell him I haven't given him a second thought, but as soon as I go to say no, my body won't let me speak. The words die in my throat and never make it past my lips.
Instead, I grab the back of his neck and pull him down to me, kissing him with everything I've been holding in.
I climb on top of him, and we knock over my medical bag. Supplies spill out: gauze, bandages, antiseptic.
I don't care. I grind into him, feeling the bulge under his boxer briefs.
He responds immediately, one hand sliding under my shirt to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. Sparks of pleasure shoot through me.
"Fuck, Lyra," he groans against my mouth as he pulls my shirt up and over my head.
I arch into his touch as his tongue slides over my breasts, kissing, sucking, licking. The sensation sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
His hands roam my body like he's trying to memorize every inch. There's something desperate in the way he touches me, not just lust, but possession. Like he's claiming territory.
I feel his body, the heat of his skin, the way his muscles flex beneath my fingertips. It's been so long since anyone touched me this way. Since I allowed anyone to touch me this way.
He sucks on my nipple so hard I moan. He then reaches down and grabs the gauze roll that spilled from my medic bag. He yanks a strip free and loops it around one of my wrists.
"What are you doing?" I ask, as my dream seems to be coming true.
His mouth brushes my ear. "Being creative."
He binds my wrists together, fast, aggressive, then tosses me to the side, my back hitting the cushion.
He climbs on top of me and lifts my hands above my head again and pins them with one hand.
"You're mine tonight."
His grip tightens around my wrists, and I feel my pulse throb against his fingers. The pressure sends electricity through me, awakening nerves I'd forgotten existed.
"You've been driving me fucking crazy," he says against my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Every time you look at me with those eyes, telling me to go to hell while your body begs me to stay."
I turn my head and find his lips. "What are you going to do now?" I ask, feeling his hardness against my thigh.
"Claim you."
He kisses me and I grind into him. I fight to move my hands, but he won't let me. I've never wanted to stroke a cock so bad in my life. I just want to feel him in every way I can.
I lose myself. My past, my trauma, my mind — everything goes and it's like I'm floating above myself. The pure ecstasy I'm feeling is almost overwhelming, too much for me to comprehend.
Is this how men are meant to make women feel? Because, holy shit, I could get used to this.
His tongue slides down my neck to my breasts, and a fire trail of kisses goes along my ribs. He kisses my stomach and moves lower. My wetness intensifies.