Chapter 20 Lyra
LYRA
The fight should be the only thing on my mind, but it isn't. I'm sitting on a folding chair near the ring, pretending to focus as two men tear into each other like it's personal. Blood spatters, the crowd roars, but all I can think about is him.
Declan Killaney.
He's across the room, arms folded, jaw tight, attention going from the ring to me when he thinks I'm not looking. I catch him doing it twice.
Women notice him, too. How could they not?
Three of them hover near his corner, casting glances his way.
One, a blonde in a tight red dress with her tits out, is bolder than the rest. She approaches, says something to him, but he gives no reaction.
She doubles down and touches his arm, leaning in, making sure he gets a good view of what she's offering.
Something twists in my stomach, sharp and unpleasant. I tell myself it's relief. That he'll be distracted now, focused on someone else. That I should be grateful.
I'm not.
His eyes find mine over the blonde's shoulder. Even across the room, I feel the heavy intensity of his looks. The blonde says something else, but Declan doesn't respond. He's looking at me, only me, as if no one else exists in this crowded, sweaty space.
The blonde follows his gaze, turning to see what's captured his attention. Her eyes narrow when she spots me. She says something that makes Declan shake his head, then walks away feeling his rejection.
I force my attention back to the fight, but my mind keeps drifting back to three nights ago. To his hands on my skin. The way his mouth claimed mine. The bandages. The couch. The sound of his voice when he made me shatter. And the way he disappeared by morning.
I got a text, but not him.
And so that turned into three days of silence. Though yesterday a man came to deliver two huge boxes. Inside were tons of new supplies, good stuff, not the cheap crap I get from the local stores.
The delivery guy didn't know who it was from, but I think I know.
I just caught him looking at me, again.
The sudden roar of the crowd turns both of our attention back to the ring. A man stumbles, but isn't going down.
I thought I could brush it off. Tell myself it didn't mean anything.
But that's a lie. One I'm still trying to make myself believe.
Getting involved with a man like Declan is suicide. Men with power take what they want and discard what they don't need. I learned that lesson years ago with the Albanians. With my father.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the round. I stand, stretching my legs. I need to walk around. Some space. Something to clear my head from the memory of Declan's hands on my body.
I weave through the crowd, nodding at a few fighters I've patched up before. The warehouse is packed and reeking of sweat and cheap beer. I push my way toward a quieter corner, off to the side.
Just as I'm about to break into a small, free bubble of space, someone reaches out and grabs my elbow.
"Ghost Angel," a voice says. "Been a while."
I turn slowly, coming face to face with him, the Albanian who killed Tatiana. The one I saw at the grocery store. The one who's been hunting me.
Ice floods my veins. Nightmares that I've buried come rushing back.
"Not long enough," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. "What do you want?"
His smile widens, revealing teeth too perfect, too white. "What we've always wanted," he says, his accent coming through, "your hands. your skills."
I glance around, looking for an exit. For help. For anyone.
"Well, I'm done," I say, pulling my arm from his grip. "I settled my debt. I'm done with you."
I turn to walk away, but his fingers close around my wrist like a vise. He twists my arm, exposing the inside of my wrist where the scalpel tattoo sits like a brand.
"This says otherwise." His thumb brushes over the mark, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.
"I don't belong to you," I say, yanking my arm back. "Not anymore."
He moves faster than I expect, grabbing me again, his fingers digging into the flesh of my forearm.
"You're coming with me," he says, voice low and threaded with menace. "New girls. New territory. Same job. You know the routine."
Panic bubbles up inside me. I know what this means. New girls to stitch up after they've been beaten and raped. New territory means they're expanding again.
"Is there a problem here?"
The voice is calm, laced with something deadly.
Declan comes up, towering over this asshole.
The Albanian turns his head but doesn't release me. "Not your concern. She belongs to us."
Declan laughs, not his genuine laugh; it's different. "That's funny. She's my medic. I pay her, which makes it my concern," he says, taking a step forward. "She's not going anywhere."
The Albanian's other hand opens his jacket, flashing the butt of a gun. "Don't be stupid. Die trying to protect a bitch who ain't yours."
Declan doesn't flinch. He leaps at the man holding me like lightning. One punch sends him stumbling.
The Albanian recovers quickly and draws his gun.
Declan lunges forward, one hand capturing the Albanian's wrist, forcing the barrel upward as it fires with a deafening bang. The bullet embeds itself in the ceiling, sending down a shower of dust and debris.
I can't look away. Declan's face transforms; gone is the charming Irish playboy. In his place is something fierce. He slams his forehead into the Albanian's nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays, but the man doesn't release the gun.
Two more shots follow, wild and directionless as they struggle.
Someone screams. Then everyone is screaming.
The crowd scatters, pushing and shoving, chairs overturning as people rush for the exits. I'm frozen, watching as Declan drives his knee into the Albanian's stomach, doubling him over. His fist connects with the man's temple once, twice with brutal force.
The Albanian collapses, but Declan isn't finished. He's on top of him still, trying to take the gun.
I see other men running toward us, weapons drawn. They look Albanian. Three of them.
A body crashes into me from behind, sending me stumbling forward. I lose my balance, falling hard onto my knees. The impact jolts through me, pain flaring sharp and immediate. When I look up, I've lost sight of Declan in the sea of fleeing bodies.
I scramble to my feet. My mind screams at me to find Declan, to help him somehow. But another voice tells me to run. Run now. Or you'll never run again.
A few of Declan's men pass me on their way to him, and I take that hope that they'll do more than I can. If I'm gone, none of this would be happening. Declan would be safe and not trying to avoid being shot.
So I turn and don't look back.
I shove through the panicked crowd, ducking under arms, slipping past bodies until I reach the back exit.
Cold air hits my face as I burst outside, my lungs burning. I don't stop. I can't.
I run until my legs ache and my breath comes in ragged gasps, until I'm sure no one is following.
Only then do I slow, ducking into the shadow of an alley to catch my breath.
Shit, I left my car.
My medical supplies, my bag beneath the seat where I always keep a spare set of clothes, all abandoned in a panic.
Fuck it.
That life is over now anyway. It was temporary. I should never have come back.
I'm stupid to think they'd just give up and move on. If it weren't for my sister, for him, maybe I would have stayed gone.
I can't let that affect me now. I have to go. To get far away from here, to protect the people who drew me back.
I lean against the brick wall, my heart racing. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me shaky and nauseous. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself.
Declan's face flashes behind my eyelids. The way he went after that Albanian. It is the first time someone has fought for me.
But that doesn't change anything. I'm too far gone to be saved. And I promised myself years ago that I would never put people in harm like I've been in.
I push away from the wall, knowing I need to keep moving until I can disappear.
I hail a cab with trembling hands, giving the driver the address of a building a few down from mine, just in case. The entire ride, I keep looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Declan or the Albanians in pursuit.
But no one follows. At least, no one I can see.
Inside my apartment, I move on autopilot. I grab my duffel bag from under the bed and start throwing clothes into it. Jeans. T-shirts. Underwear. The bare essentials. The cash I've been saving from Declan, almost fifteen thousand dollars now, hidden in the back of my freezer, wrapped in foil.
My heart pounds like it's trying to escape. My thoughts race, fragmenting, spiraling me, as usual.
I think again to myself, you're so na?ve, Lyra. You really thought two weeks would do it? Solve everything? That you'd get to stay safe.
I grab my first-aid kit, my toothbrush, my phone charger, the photograph of my sister that I keep hidden in a book. Nothing else matters.
I leave the apartment in a hurry, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, feeling both lighter and heavier at once. The building's hallway feels like a tunnel, dim and suffocating. Each step like a countdown to something bad.
I check the street twice before stepping out.
I don't take the direct route to the bus station. That would be stupid. Instead, I zigzag through side streets, doubling back occasionally, checking reflections in store windows for followers. A year out of Albanian control and I still move like I'm prey.
The bus station is fifteen blocks away. I could take another cab, but movement helps me think. And I need to think clearly now.
It's gotten colder. Or maybe it's just me. The streets grow quieter as I move away from the busy areas.
At an intersection, I pause, looking down at the tattoo on my wrist, the scalpel that marked me as Albanian property. I wipe it like it'll come off.
Three blocks from the station, I hear footsteps behind me. My pulse spikes. I pick up my pace, not running yet, running attracts attention, but moving with purpose. The footsteps seem like they're matching my speed.
I turn a corner sharply, pressing myself against the wall of a building, ready to confront whoever's following. But when they turn the corner, it's just a kid, maybe sixteen, headphones on, completely oblivious to my existence.
The bus station is just up ahead now, its harsh lights calling me forward. It's a dingy building, all concrete and glass, but to me, it might as well be a cathedral. Salvation. Escape.
Inside, the air smells of urine and desperation. A few scattered travelers occupy plastic chairs, most asleep or staring vacantly at phones. A homeless man snores across three seats, his belongings piled in a shopping cart nearby.
I approach the ticket counter, where a middle-aged woman is looking at something on her phone.
She doesn't look up. "Where to?"
"Next bus out," I say, looking around. "Doesn't matter where, just far."
She looks up at me, peers at me over her glasses.
"Cincinnati leaves in two hours. That far enough?"
I nod, counting out cash from my pocket. She prints the ticket, slides it across the counter.
"Gate three," she says. Then, "Good luck, honey."
I find a seat in the corner, my duffel bag sitting heavy on my lap, clutched to my chest like a shield. Two hours to wait.
And instead of thinking about the Albanians, about the danger, my mind drifts to Declan and the way he looks at me across that crowded room tonight like it was just him and me.
I close my eyes, pressing my fingertips against my eyelids until I see stars. This is why I stay alone, I think. This is why I don't contact my sister, why I cut every tie. Because I'll never be free as long as I care about anyone.
I open my eyes and stare at the grimy floor, counting the tiles, anything to keep my mind occupied. I don't hear the footsteps approaching; I don't sense the presence until it's too late.
"So, you were just going to run again. No goodbye this time either?"
My head snaps up.
Declan stands before me, his expression unreadable. There's a darkening bruise on his cheekbone, and his knuckles are split, but overall he doesn't look like he probably just beat a man half to death an hour ago.
"How did you find me?"
He smiles and sits down next to me.
"That phone I gave you," he says, pointing to my bag. "GPS. You actually brought it this time."
I open my mouth, then close it.
"Last time," he says, leaning into me, "you left it in your apartment, which begs the question: did you leave it on purpose then, or bring it on purpose now?"
The question hits me hard. I say nothing because I don't know.
Did I want him to find me? Did some part of me hope he would follow?
I can't answer that, not even to myself.
"What does it matter?" I finally say. "You got what you wanted. My guard slipped. We fucked. Congratulations. You win."
His expression hardens and the muscles in his jaw twitch. "If it was just about sex, I wouldn't be here. You think I can't get laid?"
"Sure you can. So then why me? There are other medics. Other women."
He doesn't hesitate. "Yeah. But none of them are you."
That silences me. No, it damn near steals my breath.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. There are things about me he doesn't know, like that I can't have children and that men may spend their days coming after me.
"If I stayed…" I pause, my voice catching. "You don't want what that costs."
He leans in, his green eyes dark, lips close to mine. "I'll pay it. A hundred times over. We make one hell of a team, Lyra. In more ways than the obvious."
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him all the reasons this is insane. That the Albanians will never stop coming for me. That I'll only bring him trouble. That men like him don't save women like me.
Before I can speak, he reaches down and grabs the bus ticket from my lap. He looks at me and tears it in half. The sound of ripping paper is impossibly loud in the quiet terminal.
"I'll make it easy for you," he says, crumbling up the pieces into his hand. "You're not leaving. Not until I say we're done."
He stands and takes my bag and then reaches out for my hand. "Come on, let's go."