Page 14

The sun slices through my curtains like a blade—too bright, too soon, and entirely uninvited.

My head is fucking throbbing. Not the dull, manageable hangover ache.

No, this is the kind of migraine that feels like a medieval war is being waged behind my eyes with tiny, ruthless hammers.

I groan, rolling onto my side, my mouth tasting like cheap red wine and bad decisions.

The dress I passed out in is still tangled around my thighs.

Fucking hell.

I blink through the haze, flashes of last night tumbling back into my brain like broken glass. Jake’s laugh in the diner, his hand drifting too high on my thigh, and his breath warm and cocky against my jaw. The kiss… sweet at first, then hungrier, hotter. And then…

Boots. Black. Fast. Angry.

Silas.

Storming out of the shadows like a soldier on a mission, his jaw locked and eyes blazing, dragging me out like a fucking criminal.

I sit up too fast, and regret slams into me as my stomach flips. “Shit,” I mutter, reaching for the phone lying abandoned on the floor. My thumb stabs the screen, unlocking it and refreshing my messages.

Nothing.

No texts. No calls. No notifications.

Nothing from Jake. That’s not like him. The guy’s borderline obsessed with me, and after the way we left things last night, he should be blowing up my phone, begging me to come over, to let him make it up to me, to let him fuck it out of both our systems.

But… there’s nothing.

And God, it’s driving me insane.

I need to get railed before I completely lose my mind. Before this restless, aching energy eats me alive from the inside out.

I sit up straighter, the fog in my brain thinning with a rising chill in my body. I checked his Instagram, and he hasn’t posted since yesterday. Not even a recycled selfie. No stories, not even a thirst trap. It’s like someone hit pause on his life.

I dial.

Voicemail.

I dial again.

Straight to voicemail.

“Come on, come on, pick up,” I whisper, pacing now, still barefoot, still in yesterday’s dress. Panic tightens its grip, wrapping icy fingers around my ribs.

I call again. Nothing.

My chest constricts.

This isn’t just a flake move, and it isn’t a morning-after ghost. Jake might be a golden retriever in human form, but he always follows up. Always.

I stab at my contacts and hit Zara’s name. The phone rings three times before she picks up, groggy.

“Lyra? What the hell? It’s, like, not even seven,” she grumbles.

“Jake’s missing.” My voice is high, cracked, and shaking.

There’s a pause on the line. Then a rustling of fabric and sheets being shoved off. “What? What do you mean by missing?”

“I mean… he left me at the diner last night. I got taken home. And now he’s just… gone. No calls. No texts. His Instagram’s dead. And he hasn’t been online.”

“Lyra, back up. Taken home by who?”

I close my eyes. “My bodyguard.”

“Oh, fuck. What happened?”

I sit on the edge of my bed and try to find the words. “We went to the diner. Jake and I. He was being… normal. Flirty. I was drinking. I was pissed off, and I just wanted to feel… something. I let him kiss me.”

“Okay…?” Zara’s voice is slower now, heavier. She’s catching up.

“We went to his car, and things got more heated. Nothing wild, just… making out. Then that stupid Creed showed up out of nowhere and pulled me out of the car.”

“Jesus Christ. What the fuck? Can he do that?”

I ignore her questions. What can’t he do? “Well, I screamed at him. We fought, and I told him off. But he threw me over his shoulder like I was nothing and dumped me in the car. Told the driver to take me home.”

Zara is dead silent.

“And now Jake’s not answering his phone.”

“Lyra…” she finally whispers. “That’s fucked.”

“I know.” My throat is tight. My hands are numb.

“Did he hurt Jake?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him after.”

“Lyra.” Her voice is steel now, the kind she reserves for threats and court depositions. “You really think your bodyguard would’ve done something to him?”

“He’s intense and possessive. He looks at me like I’m… prey.” I pause. “But he’s never actually hurt me.”

Zara exhales, long and slow. “But you don’t know what he’d do to someone else.”

I press my fingers to my temples. “I didn’t think he was that far gone. But now… I don’t know.”

“Did you ever look him up? You told me he has a military background, right?”

“Yeah. Black ops. Secret shit. He’s quiet but… terrifying.”

“Lyra, I’m serious. If something happened to Jake, and it’s because of him…”

“I know.”

“I’m coming down. Now. I’ll be there in two hours. Do not do anything until I get there.”

I nod with relief, even though she can’t see me. “Okay.”

“And Lyra?”

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t your fault.”

The words hit harder than they should. Probably because they’re exactly what I’ve been thinking this whole time, and Zara, of course, read my mind like it was printed in bold. But I can’t agree. Not out loud. Because if something does happen to Jake—if something did happen—it’ll be on me.

All on me.

I just had to go and poke the bear. I just had to make my brooding, territorial bodyguard jealous like it was some kind of game. Really, I couldn’t have just let him rail me in the backseat like a normal, well-adjusted person?

Apparently not.

“I don’t know about that,” I whisper, ending the call.

I lower the phone and stare at my reflection. My hair is like a storm cloud with mascara rings under my eyes and lips still red from last night’s wine and Jake’s mouth.

And all I can think is, if Jake’s really gone… Silas is going to answer for it.

Even if I have to rip the truth out of his goddamn throat.

I storm down the hallway, every step echoing with the fury tightening my chest. The air feels electric, like the moment before a storm cracks open the sky. My palms sting from how hard I’m clenching them, my nails digging half-moons into my skin.

The doors to the dining hall swing open with a crash.

And there he is.

Silas Creed. Sitting like he owns the fucking world. Back straight, plate half-finished, and fork in hand like he hasn’t just unraveled the thread of my sanity. He looks up slowly, and for a split second, his eyes pin me like a knife to a wall.

I don’t think.

I grab the closest mug and hurl it with every ounce of rage I’ve got. It shatters against the wall beside him, ceramic exploding like shrapnel.

“Jake’s missing! You did this!” My voice cracks on the last word—too much wine, too much panic, too much goddamn everything.

Silas doesn’t react. Not even a twitch.

“I’ll look into it,” he says like we’re discussing the weather.

“You looked into me,” I hiss, stalking closer. “You saw us. You were there.”

He sets his fork down, the click of it unnaturally loud on the plate. Then he tilts his head, his eyes like ice and iron. “Do you want comfort, Lyra? Or do you want the truth?”

My laugh is hollow. “I want Jake alive! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He rises, slow and quiet, every movement precise, like a predator bored of the chase.

“Oh, please,” he says, his voice low and edged like broken glass. “He was just a booty call. You don’t actually care about him.”

I move fast, almost blind with fury. “Fuck you, Creed.”

But he doesn’t back down. Doesn’t even blink.

“He’s fine,” he says, stepping closer until I can feel his heat like a live wire. “I haven’t done any damage. At least, not yet.”

The way he says it, it’s not reassurance. It’s a fucking threat.

My breath catches, fury twisting into something darker. “Oh my God! Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He smirks. “Keep pushing me, Vane, keep testing the line. Maybe I’ll give you something real to scream about.”

My heart is a drumline. Fast and erratic. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, close enough that I can see the silver flecks in his steel-blue eyes. “And you’re reckless, sloppy, addicted to being watched. You want the impossible.”

“I want to know what happened to him.”

His expression doesn’t change. There’s no regret or hesitation. “He was trouble.”

And just like that, it hits me. He’s not sorry. He doesn’t need to be.

And somewhere, in the sickest, most twisted part of me, I realize I’m not just afraid.

I’m turned on.

What the hell is wrong with me?

It’s the danger, that low hum of barely leashed violence that clings to him like a second skin. That smirk he wears like a blade tucked into his mouth. Calm and controlled. The kind of calm that only comes from a man who’s done far worse and never lost sleep over it.

He’s the type that women should run from, the kind that mothers warn daughters about. And yet I can’t look away.

His chest rises slowly and steadily. He’s not even winded. The air around him crackles with an electric and unholy aura. His hands are still, his jaw locked tight, his entire body wound like he’s holding back a monstrous identity that would rip the world apart if he let it slip.

And I’m standing here, heart pounding, blood thrumming, caught between instinct and desire.

Because this man could destroy me. And part of me wants to let him try.

He didn’t just make Jake disappear. He did it because I made him feel something. No one’s ever done that before.

No one’s ever protected me like that, possessed me like that. No one’s ever burned the world a little just to keep me close.

There must be something broken in me, because despite the horror, despite the fear, I feel heat curl low in my stomach. My skin buzzes where his eyes land, and my body responds like it’s been waiting for someone to grab the leash I’ve been dragging for years.

I’m sick. Twisted. And I’m hooked .

“Why?” I whisper. “Why would you do that?”

His voice is rough and dangerous. “Because he put his hands where they didn’t belong.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do ,” he says, stepping even closer and crowding me into the dining table until my back bumps against the edge. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

“Admitted what?”

“That you wanted me to see.”