Page 12

Then it deepens, her mouth claiming his with a hunger that screams performance.

She grinds her hips into his lap, the movement slow and intentional, and the bastard leans back, letting her straddle him like they’re in a goddamn movie theater.

Lyra’s hands slide over his chest, then up to her shoulders.

In one swift tug, she pulls the straps of her dress down.

Her eyes don’t leave me for a second, and Jake doesn’t even notice that this act isn’t for him. It’s for me.

The black fabric slips off her shoulders like it was never meant to stay on, gliding down her arms and settling around her waist in the dim interior of the car. She’s straddling him, the useless jerk whose hands are already gripping her hips like she belongs to him.

But she doesn’t look at him. She’s looking at me .

Through the heat twisting in my gut, her eyes stay on mine like she knew exactly when and where I’d be watching. And she holds that gaze—steady, unwavering, and dangerous.

Her bare skin glows under the dashboard lights, a soft sheen of sweat already beginning to form along the curve of her stomach.

Her breasts sway as she moves, full and flawless, her nipples peaked and tight and flushed with arousal, or maybe just performance.

The shadows play along her body like they’ve memorized every dip and line, and I can’t look away. Not even when I want to.

And for a moment, just a beat, it’s like the entire fucking world goes silent.

Rage coils in my chest, humming with territorial madness. I want to tear the door off that car. I want to rip her away from him and throw fists until the fury stops clawing at my throat.

But my body betrays me.

I’m already hard. Already aching and rooted to the spot like I’ve been carved from granite. Because it’s not just lust. It’s punishment. She’s punishing me, and she wants me to see it. She wants me to feel it.

She rolls her hips again, slow and torturous, never breaking eye contact. Never looking away.

It’s not just a show. It’s a war declaration.

And I hate her for it.

Almost as much as I still want her.

Almost.

I can’t breathe because I’m furious .

I’ve had enough.

I stride out from the shadows, my boots hitting the pavement like gunshots. Oh, hell no. No man is seeing her like this. Not when she’s undressed like sin and smirking like the devil handed her a personal invitation. My jaw clenches, rage simmering hot and wild.

Lyra sees me instantly. She jerks her straps up, but I can see it’s not because she’s ashamed or panicked. It’s with that same damn smirk that’s been etched into my brain like a curse, like she planned this and wanted me to come unhinged.

Jake looks confused. “Uh… what the hell…”

“Out,” I growl.

Lyra’s eyes flash with fury. “Oh, fuck you, Creed.”

“Get. Out.”

Jake blinks. “Wait, man… what’s going…?”

But I’m already yanking the door open. My hand closes around Lyra’s arm with all the restrained force of a man who’s one second from losing it. I make sure not to grab too hard because, despite my fury, I don’t want to hurt her. Not like this, at least. Not without her consent.

She rips her arm away. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” I snarl. “You wanted me to see.”

She glares at me, her cheeks flushed, her breathing hard. “So what? You think you can just drag me away like you own me?”

“No,” I bite out, leaning close enough that she can feel the fury rolling off me in waves. “But I’ll make sure the next time you pull this shit, it won’t end with me watching. It’ll end with him in a hospital bed.”

Jake shifts beside her, looking like he might say something dumb. So I shoot him a look—a very specific look. One that says, Open your mouth again and I’ll leave a mark you’ll see every time you shave.

He shuts up fast.

But it doesn’t stop me from looking him over like I’m mentally filing away pressure points.

Jake is still fumbling for words, his cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide, and sporting a hard-on that makes me want to reach in and snap his damn dick in two.

The fucker looks like he just walked off the set of some Abercrombie ad with a golden boy glow and tousled hair that probably costs more than my entire black-ops wardrobe to maintain.

And now he’s sitting there, breathless, hard, and completely oblivious to the fact that he’s about five seconds away from losing his ability to reproduce.

His fingers are still half-curled on the seat beside Lyra’s bare thigh. He hasn’t moved them as he’s either too stunned or too stupid. His chest is rising and falling fast, like he just ran a marathon. Wait, no, not a marathon. Like he just won the fucking jackpot.

And yeah, he did. Until now. Because here’s the thing about men like Jake. They think they’re untouchable. They think charm, cologne, and privilege can buy them anything, including girls who like to burn.

But Lyra’s not a girl you buy. She’s a goddamn natural disaster, and this idiot had the audacity to think he was her match, especially with me always at her side.

Looking at him now, I want to drag him out of the car by his collar and remind him that some things aren’t his to touch. Some things are wired with landmines, and if he gets too close, he deserves the explosion.

And that bulge pressing against his khakis is enough to make me fucking see red. No man gets hard over her while I’m breathing the same air. Not unless he wants to lose that privilege permanently.

Lyra laughs, low and sharp. “You’re fucking insane.”

“And you’re playing with fire, Vane,” I snap, every word tight enough to snap steel. “Don’t forget who’s holding the extinguisher.”

I bare my teeth. My breath’s coming hard now, fast and sharp, and I don’t trust myself to stay calm if I keep looking at either of them. So I pull out my phone and hit the comm line for the driver.

“Start the fucking car,” I bark.

Nothing. Then, a mumbled, “Yes, sir.” He’s parked on the opposite side of the diner, probably chewing gum and pretending he’s not on the payroll to babysit a bomb in stilettos.

I step forward, my eyes locked on Lyra. Her body tenses immediately because she knows that look on my face. It’s the one that means I’m done being reasonable.

She straightens, her chin up and arms crossed like she’s daring me to try. “You touch me again, and I swear…”

I don’t give her time to finish.

I grab her elbow, firm and fast. I’m not hurting her. Yet. “We’re done here,” I growl.

She jerks her arm back violently. “No. You might be done. I’m not your fucking responsibility…”

I step in closer, my grip tightening. My other hand shoots up, cupping her jaw in one swift motion, enough to tilt her face toward mine, to hold her still. “Don’t test my patience, Lyra.”

Her eyes narrow defiantly. “Or what? You’ll drag me away like some caveman?”

I lean in, my voice dropping to something primal. “No. I’ll burn the whole damn town down if you make me.”

We stare at each other, our noses nearly touching. Her breath hits mine, wine-soaked and furious. The spark in her eyes, part challenge and part panic, makes something feral unfurl in my chest.

And then she opens her mouth to scream, but I beat her to it.

In one swift, practiced motion, I surge forward, duck low, and wrap an arm around her waist. Before she can get the first syllable out, I hoist her clean off from inside the car and sling her over my shoulder like she weighs nothing, like she’s air and fire and fury all bundled into one infuriating, squirming package.

“What the FUCK , Creed?! Put me down!” she shrieks, her voice muffled against my back as she flails wildly.

She kicks, but her legs are tangled in her dress, which makes it more frantic than effective.

She punches, little fists hammering at my back with all the fury of a caffeinated kitten.

It’s chaos. Her palms slap against my spine, her hair swinging like a whip as she thrashes, but still, I don’t stop.

She beats her fists against me like she thinks she can make me waver, like she doesn’t realize I’ve been through war zones quieter than this.

“You insane, testosterone-choked psycho!” she hisses, kicking her heels against my ribs. “Put me the fuck down!”

Right now, this is the only way to shut her up. And maybe, deep down, some twisted part of me likes the feel of her pressed against me, even if she’s half-feral and spitting fire.

“You’re light as hell,” I mutter, ignoring the string of obscenities she hurls at me. “What do you weigh, ninety pounds soaking wet?”

“Put me down, you medieval fuck!” she screeches, trying to wiggle free.

I hold her tighter. “Careful, Vane,” I grunt. “You keep squirming like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re enjoying the ride.”

She growls. Actually growls. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“Get in line,” I mutter, marching toward the curb where the black sedan is just pulling up.

The driver gets out, sees me carrying her like a sack of drama and fury, and freezes with his mouth open and eyes wide. Smart man, he says nothing.

I jerk my head toward the door. “Open it.”

He does, silently, and I toss Lyra into the backseat like I’m dumping a particularly troublesome suitcase.

She lands with a shriek, hair wild, dress rumpled, and fury radiating off her in hot waves. “I will sue you. I will have you arrested . I will call my father …”

“I am your father’s solution,” I growl, slamming the door before she can finish.

The window’s down just enough for me to lean in.