No #3
He starts to pump them, in and out, a slow, deliberate rhythm that feels both violating and methodical.
And with each thrust, something inside me shifts.
The calm that had settled over me shatters, replaced by a blinding rage that grips me so tightly I can barely breathe.
It's hot and fierce and overwhelming, a primal fury that eclipses even the terror I felt moments ago.
"You are going to be so good to me," Crispin whispers as he shifts.
I feel his fingers leave my body, and then I hear his belt being unbuckled—the metallic clink followed by the rasp of leather sliding through loops. His hips lift off of mine, giving me a precious inch of space, and in that moment, my rage takes over completely.
I gather every ounce of strength I have left, roll my hips, then drive my knee up, hard, connecting with his balls with all the force I can muster.
The impact is sickeningly solid—his warm balls crushing against my kneecap with a wet, meaty thud that vibrates up my thigh. For a horrifying second, I can feel the delicate sac give way, the tissue yielding to the force of my blow.
Crispin makes a sound I've never heard a grown man make, high and strangled, and he folds forward instantly, both hands flying down to cup himself as he collapses sideways off the couch and onto the rug, his face contorting in agony.
Finally able to move, I launch myself off the couch, my heart hammering against my ribs, my body trembling with adrenaline and rage.
And I run.
I don't stop at the office door. I don't look back to see if he's still on the floor, still curled around himself, still breathing.
I just run, my feet slapping frantic and uneven against the floor.
Voices drift from the dining room, my father's laugh rolling loud and easy over the clink of silverware, still no idea that anything has gone wrong. Thomas rounds the corner with a tray balanced against his forearm, and I duck past him so fast he has to catch it to keep it from sliding.
"Miss Lyra—"
I don't hear the rest of it.
The staircase blurs beneath me, two steps at a time, one hand dragging along the banister for balance, while a hundred years of Van Houten alphas stare down at me from their frames.
My bedroom door slams behind me hard enough to rattle the frame, and I twist the lock with fingers that don't feel like mine anymore.
My heart is a fist against my ribs, so loud I can hear it over my own breath.
Panicked, I turn to face the room, and something warm trickles down the inside of my thigh.
Blood.
Thin and dark, tracking a slow line down the inside of my thigh.
I blink at the sight, weirdly numb to it.
There isn't room left inside me for one more thing to feel, so I just watch it slide down my skin for a second, distant and strange, and then I keep moving.
My body moves toward my bed, picking up my sneakers. I shove my feet into them, then cross to my nest and dig beneath the far pillow. My fingers close around the small roll of bills I've been hiding there for a few years.
It’s not very much money, but it’s all I have right now.
I shove the money into my bra, then turn toward my closet, my hand already reaching for the strap of an empty duffle bag, when footsteps hit the hallway outside my door.
"Lyra?" My father's voice, closer than it should be, sharp with something that isn't quite anger yet. Not yet. "Open this door."
My whole body goes cold and still, the strap slipping out of my fingers.
There's no time to pack. There's no time for anything.
"Lyra!"
Without thinking, I cross to the window, my hands shaking so hard it takes three tries to get the latch to give, and then the old glass swings outward into the warm night air.
The trellis is right where it's always been, thick with the same climbing roses I used to scale as a kid, back when my parents encouraged me to run, play, and explore.
I haven't touched it in years.
Beyond the hedges and the long dark stretch of lawn, the city glows against the horizon, gold and white lights I've looked at a thousand times from this exact window and never once thought about running toward.
The library.
Owen's library is ten miles from here. Maybe less if I cut through the east side instead of taking the main road.
My father's fist hits the door, once, then twice, the wood shuddering in its frame. "Lyra! Open this door right now!"
I don't answer.
I swing one leg over the sill, then the other, my palms slick against the old wood as I grip the top rung of the trellis. It groans under my weight, and for one sickening second I'm sure the whole thing is going to peel away from the brick and take me down with it.
Don't look down. Don't look down.
I look down anyway.
The ground is so much farther away than it used to be, or maybe I was just too young to understand distance the last time I did this.
My foot searches blindly for the next gap, my fingers cramping around a rose stem, thorns biting into my palm hard enough to draw blood I don't have time to feel.
I could fall. I could break my neck in my own backyard and no one would probably care.
But I can’t stay.
I refuse to be that asshole’s mate.
So I keep going, one shaking handhold at a time, praying to every god my mother ever pretended to believe in that the library doors are still open, that Owen is still somewhere inside, and that he actually meant what he said.