Page 11

She’s dressing for war.

I can tell by the way she moves, slow and fluid, every piece of clothing a weapon chosen to kill something inside me.

Her dress is black, tight, and cut dangerously high on the thigh.

Her hair’s pulled back, just messy enough to look effortless but just sharp enough to make me wish I didn’t have eyes.

The neckline plunges with the kind of calculated precision that screams, This is for me. But I know you’re watching.

She sprays perfume with a little flick of her wrist; a cloud of temptation lingers in the air like a taunt. Then she pauses and glances at her phone. The smile she gives the screen is soft. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t belong to strangers.

And then she looks up, straight into the hallway camera.

She knows. She always knows.

A smirk pulls at the edge of her mouth. “Are you watching, Creed?” she murmurs to no one and everyone. And then she’s gone, her hips swaying past the frame, a walking dare in stilettos and cherry lipstick.

I’m already moving.

She takes the driver Evander assigned her for the week.

I take a second vehicle. It’s unmarked and quiet.

I stay two cars behind, my eyes fixed on her silhouette through the windshield every chance I get.

Evander’s latest memo had been clear : No contact with others unless necessary.

We hired you for discretion, not intimidation. ”

Right. Because the best way to control chaos is to observe it from a safe distance. Like she’s a forest fire, and I’m supposed to take notes while she burns the whole fucking town down.

I don’t take notes. I hunt.

The road to Willowridge’s riverside diner curves like a spine through quiet neighborhoods and long-forgotten fields. Lyra stares out the window like she’s in a movie, coasting through her script like a phantom in the third act, and I watch from two cars behind, my headlights off.

The diner sits like a postcard at the edge of the river, with fairy lights strung around chipped windows and the neon sign blinking like an old heartbeat. It’s got that nostalgic Americana charm that’s meant to disarm. But nothing here feels charming.

I park half a block down and kill the engine, my eyes scanning the lot.

She’s already inside. And he’s waiting.

Jake Brown.

The name makes my jaw clench hard enough to grind enamel.

He’s the kind of guy who always looks like he just stepped out of a GQ shoot in a way that pisses me off.

He has artfully tousled sandy blond hair and a square jaw that’s shaved too clean.

That preppy, effortless vibe like he summers in the Hamptons and still thinks Patek Philippe is a personality.

Tight polo, rolled sleeves, and muscular forearms, but not from anything real, just good genes and private tennis lessons.

He’s smiling already, that easy, arrogant kind of grin that gets girls into trouble and out of parking tickets.

And right now, it’s aimed at her.

All-American golden boy with dimples and a trust fund.

The kind of guy who still calls his mom every Sunday and thinks therapy is for other people.

They’ve hooked up before. I know. Her texts, her call logs, the way she tilts her head when his name comes up…

it all adds up. And now he’s back in the picture, all teeth and harmless charm, like a damn Labrador in loafers.

She slides into the booth like sin wrapped in smoke.

He leans in, and they kiss. It’s not a greeting. It’s like a memory.

His hand cradles her cheek like he knows her face better than his own. She lets him and tilts into it, that damn dress molding to her curves like liquid seduction. Their lips meet again, slower this time, like they’re both savoring something stolen. My fists clench.

She’s flirting now. She’s laughing too much and tilting her head in a way that says she knows he’s watching her mouth.

She toys with the stem of her wine glass, her fingers gliding over the crystal suggestively, her lips slightly parted.

Her heel brushes his ankle under the table, then lingers. It’s calculated.

She orders a bottle of wine. Not a glass but a bottle. A classy vintage too. She’s drinking to forget or to tempt. Probably both. Jake’s hand is already on hers across the table, his thumb brushing soft circles against her skin like he thinks he has any idea what he’s doing.

My pulse hammers in my ears. I’m watching something I have no right to want to rip apart. And yet, here I am, aching to walk in and tear her away from him like I own her.

Because right now, in my head, I do.

She’s wearing that black dress, the one with the dangerously low back and the high slit that leaves nothing to the imagination when she crosses her legs. Her skin glows under the cheap diner lighting, soft and golden, like she doesn’t belong in this town or this booth or this world.

And yet here she is.

Looking like temptation and sipping red wine with the man I hate more than anyone I’ve ever met.

Jake leans in again. “Your guard dog not following tonight?”

Lyra’s smile is sweet . Venomous . “Not yet.”

The back of my neck tingles. I can’t hear them, but years in the military taught me to lip-read quite well. Her tone is light and teasing, but her eyes flick toward the window. She knows I’m here. She might not see me. But she feels it.

The server refills her glass. She drinks again, faster now, as Jake touches her wrist. His fingers trail up her forearm lazily.

I exhale slowly, and my hands flex against the steering wheel. Every muscle in my arms tightens like I’m gearing up for a fight I’m not allowed to start.

She leans across the table, and their lips meet again.

This one lasts longer. Her hand goes to the back of his neck, her fingers curling.

His hand slides along her side before slipping beneath the edge of that damn dress.

I can see the shift in her body language—how her knee brushes his under the table and how she tilts her head just enough to let him deepen the kiss.

And all I can think is… that should be me.

I should be the one making her gasp against my mouth and dragging my hands over her skin, mapping every inch like it belongs to me.

Because it does . She’s mine. Even if she doesn't know it yet. Even if she fights it. Especially because she fights it.

Jake leans in again, whispering something against her neck that makes her laugh. It’s that sultry, teasing kind of laugh that stings more than it should. Then, he pulls back slightly and mutters, “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Lyra doesn’t answer right away. She takes one last sip of her wine, sets the glass down, and glances over her shoulder. But not toward him. Toward me.

Or at least toward the space where she knows I am.

Then she smiles, slow and wicked, and nods.

They slide out of the booth like a scene from some indie romance that should piss me off, but only fuels the fire. Her dress rides up as she walks ahead of him, the curve of her thigh catching the low diner light. His hand hovers at her back, then lands there, casually, like he’s claiming her.

And I want to break it.

They walk toward the parking lot. I follow, slipping out of my car, silent and shadowed, every step a barely leashed growl in my throat.

Jake opens the passenger door to his sporty little Audi, trying way too hard. Lyra slides in, crossing her legs intentionally so the slit in her dress creeps up to expose those milky thighs of hers. Fuck .

The door shuts.

He rounds the car and gets in.

I move swiftly, blending into the shadows like a ghost with unfinished business. They think they’re alone, laughing and whispering, but they don’t see me. Not yet.

From behind a stack of crates near the edge of the lot, I have the perfect view. They’re parked in the far corner, half-shrouded by overgrown trees and the dim glimmer of a dying streetlamp. I crouch low, hidden but wired with tension. Every breath is a razor.

Lyra leans into Jake before he even turns off the ignition. Her laugh, a low and breathy sound, is just audible over the breeze rustling through the leaves. She’s half in his lap before he’s managed to undo his seatbelt.

Jake’s hand slides along her thigh, tentative at first. Testing. Then it becomes bolder, his fingers splaying wide over the dark fabric of her dress. His other hand cups the back of her neck, drawing her in slowly. Their lips meet in a soft, searching kiss.

Lyra leans in, pressing herself closer, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

The kiss deepens, needier and hotter. Her mouth opens beneath his, inviting him in, and he answers with a hunger that matches her own.

It’s a collision now as slow gave way to starving.

Her breath hitches as his hands find her thigh again and slide over the soft fabric, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

I grip the edge of the crate until my knuckles go white.

Her fingers clutch at his collar. She drags him closer, moaning softly.

He’s all over her now, his hands up her thigh and mouth trailing toward her jaw.

She throws her head back, her hair cascading over the seat like a curtain of darkness.

Then, all of a sudden, before I can duck, Lyra’s eyes lock with mine for just a second.

There’s no mistaking it. She sees me. And instead of freezing, instead of pulling away from Jake like any sane person would when they spot their personal warden, she leans in closer.

Her lips find Jake’s again, slow and teasing.