Page 23

I enter the estate through the back door because the front is for presentable people. My hands are stained red, my knuckles split, with blood under my nails. It’s not all mine, but I’m not running a DNA test.

The security camera near the mudroom blinks. I raise my middle finger to it like an old friend and shove the door shut behind me with my boot. The lull in here is almost peaceful if you ignore the whole sociopath vibe I’ve got going on. But hey, what’s a little bloodshed between people?

I move to the sink and turn the water on hot. I hiss when my fingers burn as the blood runs down the drain in twisting pink rivulets. My right hand throbs. I might’ve jammed a knuckle when his jaw crunched like a bag of chips. But it was worth it. Ten times over.

See, there are certain lines you don’t cross. And making Lyra uncomfortable? That’s the kind of line you can’t come back from.

He didn’t know who he was dealing with. Most predators don’t. They think they’re at the top of the food chain until something hungrier shows up. I’m the hunger. I’m the last fucking thing you see when your luck runs out.

It wasn’t hard to find him again. These small-town types are creatures of habit. I tailed him for an hour and watched him nurse a cheap beer in a dive bar like he hadn’t tried to touch something that doesn’t belong to him.

Then I waited.

When he finally stumbled out, swaggering like a dog who thinks its piss marks territory, I was there.

“Hey.”

He turned, his eyes narrowing. “You lost or something, buddy?”

Buddy. Christ. These guys always think they’re the main character.

“You touched something that’s mine.”

He blinked, then scoffed. “You her boyfriend or something? Look, man, she didn’t say she had a…”

I punched him mid-sentence.

His head snapped sideways, and he hit the concrete like a sack of meat. He tried to scramble back, his palms scraping on asphalt. “Fucking psycho!”

I let him crawl. Gave him ten whole seconds.

Then, I dragged him by the collar and slammed him against the hood of his car. The impact made a loud metallic thunk, his breath leaving him in a wheeze. “You don’t get to look at her. Not like that. You don’t get to speak to her. Ever.”

“You’re insane!”

“Maybe. But at least I’m not a predator.” I leaned in, close enough for him to feel the heat of my breath. “You cornered her. You made her flinch. That’s enough for me.”

Then I drew the gun from my holster and pressed the barrel to his forehead. His pupils blew wide with panic.

“You don’t deserve to walk the same earth,” I murmured in a low and deadly voice. “But killing you here would put a spotlight on me. And I don’t do spotlights.”

He whimpered, his legs trembling like a cornered animal. Pathetic. I didn’t hesitate.

My fist slammed into his ribs with a sickening crack, and his bone gave way like rotted wood. He dropped with a grunt, his knees buckling beneath him. But I wasn’t done. Not even close.

I followed him down. Fists. Elbows. Boots. I became a storm of violence, pure and unrelenting. Blood sprayed from his nose and gushed from his split lip, and one of his eyes was already swelling shut, puffed and purple. He sobbed, sobbed , his hands up and voice cracking as he begged me to stop.

I didn’t care. I didn’t even hear him.

My breath came in ragged gulps, my fists slick with blood. His or mine, I couldn’t tell. My knuckles were raw and throbbing, the skin flayed open. Only when I could barely feel my arms anymore did I grab him by the collar and hurl him to the pavement like discarded trash.

He writhed, gasping and dragging himself toward his car like a slug leaking oil. Every inch of movement looked like agony. He shouldn’t have been able to walk, let alone drive.

But somehow, he got his car’s engine started.

I let him. I watched him fumble the gear shift with trembling fingers as blood stained his wheel. I let him believe he was escaping. That it was over.

Then, I followed him.

I tailed him with my headlights off at first, just a shadow in his rearview mirror.

When I turned them on, I kept them bright, flashing in intervals.

I crept up close enough to kiss his bumper.

He panicked, weaving across the dark, winding road like a drunk.

His car jerked violently to one side. His tires hit the gravel edge, and I knew he was seconds from losing it.

One more nudge. One more swerve.

And then, he spun out.

His car skidded, tires screaming, metal grinding. It slammed into the ditch with a crunch so loud that it echoed down the empty road like a death rattle. Steam billowed from the hood, and the windshield was a spiderweb of cracks. The driver’s side door hung open, swinging slightly.

I killed the engine and sat there, just watching and waiting. Breathing hard and waiting to see if he’d crawl out again.

I quietly hoped he’d try, so I could finish what I started. I’d played this game before, way too many times. And I always knew when to stop the chase.

I finish rinsing the blood off and get in the shower. It burns when I wash my body, but it feels good at the same time. Once I’m done, I reach for my towel. My reflection in the stainless-steel backsplash looks tired but not guilty. Never guilty. But tired.

The tracker I embedded in that choker is live—green and pulsing on my phone screen upstairs. She’s in the living room. Good. Safe.

She doesn’t know what I’ve done, but soon enough, she’ll find out. It’ll be up to her to decide whether she wants to stay or run.

The darker part of me hopes she stays . Because I want her to know just how far I’ll go.

Lyra Vane isn’t just some client. She’s a fucking wildfire. And I’d rather burn with her than watch her get snuffed out by the world.

I crack my neck, stretch my fingers, and head toward the hall.

Time to clean up. And maybe… watch her smile again. Yeah, that’s worth a little blood.

The bathroom door swings open, the steam curling around me like smoke. The heat clings to my skin, which is still flushed from the shower. My muscles are loose yet tight with the memory of her, of Lyra.

I step into the hallway, towel off the back of my neck, and stop dead in my tracks.

She’s there. Waiting for me.

Bathed in soft pools of moonlight filtering through the hallway window, Lyra stands in front of me like something out of a dream I’ve never dared voice. Her back is to me at first, and then she turns slowly. My breath stalls in my chest.

She looks radiant. She’s not wearing a bra, just a pale rose-colored robe so light that it looks like it would melt under a breath.

It clings to her body in the most dangerous places—her waist, the curve of her hips, and the tops of her breasts, which are barely held inside the lapels.

The sash is tied with the kind of knot that begs to come undone.

She’s barefoot. There’s something intimate and intended in that small detail. Like every part of her has been curated for this exact moment. For me.

Her eyes find mine, and a subtle, knowing smile tugs at her lips.

Lyra starts walking toward me, each step unhurried, her hips swaying just enough to pull my gaze lower, where the robe shifts and parts slightly with each movement. She stops when there’s just enough space between us for me to see everything and touch nothing.

And then she reaches for the knot.

Her fingers toy with the sash for a breathless second, and then, slowly, like she wants to etch the moment into my bones, she unties it.

The robe slips open. No hesitation. No shame. It slides down her shoulders, falling in a whisper to the floor.

She stands before me, bare, radiant, and unapologetic.

My gaze drags over her, helpless to resist. Full, perfect breasts, peaked and flushed from lingering arousal, a waist that begs to be gripped, hips that flare out into legs that go on for days, and between them, slick and glistening, the place I’ve tasted and claimed but will never get enough of.

She doesn’t speak at first. She just holds my gaze as if daring me to make the next move. My pulse hammers. I’ve never been this hard in my life. I can barely think, let alone breathe.

Then she leans in just enough to whisper against my ear. “I’ll be waiting for you in the sunroom.”

And just like that, she turns and walks away.

The sway of her hips, the smooth slide of her bare feet over the hardwood, the quiet echo of her footsteps, it all sets my blood on fire. I’m left standing there with my towel loose in my hands, trying to remember how to walk.

My cock is aching. Every part of me feels too big for my skin. I stumble forward, half-dressed, my heart pounding like a war drum.

Then I move.

The thin sash lies forgotten on the floor like an invitation. I bend to pick it up, the cool fabric sliding through my fingers. I don’t even think about why I grab it… It just feels right. Necessary. Like it belongs in my hand. Like she does.

The hallway feels longer than usual as I head toward the sunroom, my every step getting heavier with need. My cock is hard enough to ache, pressing against the towel still draped around my waist, and my heart pounds with a rhythm that matches the throb between my legs.

As I walk, I wind the tie around my knuckles, my grip tight.

Lyra asked me to follow her. She’s waiting.

And I’m bringing the rope.

The door to the sunroom creaks open, and moonlight spills across the tiled floor in silver ribbons. The air is thick with the scent of night jasmine and something deeper—anticipation, maybe. Or surrender.

Lyra stands at the far end, bathed in the soft glow that filters through the glass panels above. She’s waiting, completely bare, her skin glowing like starlight. Her chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, but she doesn’t speak.

I close the door behind me and let the robe’s tie unwind from my fingers.

“Come here,” I say softly.