Chapter 53 —
POV: Lyra
Night doesn't always announce itself.
Sometimes it just… slips in.
I don't remember falling asleep. Only the weight of exhaustion pulling me under, my body surrendering before my mind could argue. The room was dim, the lights reduced to a faint amber glow—enough to see shadows, not enough to trust them.
That's what woke me.
A shadow where there shouldn't have been one.
I opened my eyes slowly, breath caught in my throat.
Someone was standing near the bed.
Not Aren.
This presence was wrong—too close, too careless. The air felt disturbed, like someone had stepped into my space without permission. I didn't move at first. I listened.
Breathing.
Male. Uneven.
My fingers curled into the sheets.
The mattress dipped.
Panic surged like electricity straight through my spine.
I reacted on instinct.
I twisted, lashed out with my elbow, my knee coming up hard. My heel connected with something solid—someone grunted in pain, stumbling back.
"What the—"
I rolled off the bed, heart slamming against my ribs, and grabbed the nearest thing—glass, metal, I didn't care. My hands were shaking but my body moved fast, survival taking over.
"Don't touch me," I snapped, voice sharp, feral.
The man stepped forward again, irritated now. I could see him clearly—young, careless eyes, a smirk that made my skin crawl.
"Relax," he said. "We're just checking—"
I lunged.
He didn't expect it.
I slammed the object into his shoulder and ran for the door—
—but it opened from the outside.
Another man entered.
His friend.
They both froze for half a second, then the second one laughed softly.
"Well," he said, eyes dragging over me in a way that made my stomach twist, "looks like she's awake."
I backed away, pulse roaring in my ears.
"No," I whispered. "Stay away."
One of them reached out.
That was when the door slammed open again.
Hard.
Aren.
He moved like a storm breaking loose.
He didn't speak.
He didn't hesitate.
His fist connected with the first man's jaw with a crack that echoed through the room. The second one barely had time to react before Aren grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall.
"Out," Aren said quietly.
The word wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The first man staggered up, spitting blood. "She attacked—"
Aren hit him again.
This time, he didn't get up.
"You were warned," Aren said, eyes cold, lethal. "You crossed a line I don't redraw."
The second man raised his hands. "It was nothing—"
Aren turned.
One look.
The man flinched.
"Leave," Aren said. "Now. And if I ever see either of you near her again, you won't walk out."
They didn't argue.
They ran.
The door shut.
Silence crashed down.
I was still backed against the wall, chest heaving, hands numb. My vision blurred—not from tears yet, but from the delayed impact of fear catching up to me.
My knees gave out.
I slid down slowly, hugging myself, shaking.
It hit me all at once.
The trapped feeling. The helplessness. The memory of hands that shouldn't touch, of control stolen, of space invaded.
"I want to be free," I whispered, barely audible. "I don't want you. Leave me alone."
My voice broke.
Tears spilled over, violent and unstoppable.
Aren turned toward me.
For the first time since I'd met him, his expression changed completely.
No arrogance.
No calculation.
Just something dark and strained—like regret sharpened into restraint.
He crossed the room slowly, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.
"Lyra," he said quietly.
I flinched at my name.
"Don't," I sobbed. "Please don't—just leave me alone."
He knelt in front of me instead.
Didn't touch me.
Not yet.
"You're safe," he said. "They won't come back."
"I don't believe you," I cried. "I don't belong here. I don't want this. I just want to be free."
His jaw tightened.
"I know," he said.
That made me look up.
"You don't," I snapped. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know more than you think," Aren replied softly. "And less than I wish."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small injector—clear liquid inside.
My body tensed instantly.
"No," I said, scrambling back. "Don't drug me—"
"Not to control you," he said immediately. "It's an antidose. Your system's already overloaded. Panic like this can shut you down."
I was shaking too hard to argue.
My vision tunneled. My breath came in short, painful gasps.
Aren moved closer.
"This is the last time I touch you without permission," he said, voice low and firm. "I swear it."
He pressed the injector gently against my arm.
The sting was brief.
Warmth followed—slow, spreading, easing the tight coil in my chest. My breathing began to steady against my will, exhaustion dragging me under again.
Aren guided me back onto the bed, careful, distant.
He adjusted the blanket around me like a barrier, not a claim.
As my eyes fluttered shut, I heard him speak—so quietly I wasn't sure if he meant for me to hear.
"I wish I could let you go," Aren murmured. "But I can't."
A pause.
"And I don't want you to fall into the wrong trap."
Darkness softened the edges of the room.
The last thing I felt was the weight of sleep pulling me under—heavy, reluctant, but merciful.
And the last thing I heard—
Aren's voice, almost breaking.
"Sleep, Lyra."
Sleep didn't come cleanly.
It dragged.
Like something pulling me under the surface while my mind kept clawing back up for air.
I floated in and out—voices blurring, shadows stretching, the echo of footsteps that weren't there anymore but still felt present. My body was warm now, heavy, but my chest still ached as if panic had branded itself into my ribs.
I turned slightly.
The bed dipped.
My eyes snapped open.
Aren was sitting in the chair beside the bed.
Not looming. Not watching like a guard.
Just… there.
His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped, head lowered. The light from the hallway cut across his face, carving sharp lines where exhaustion had settled. He hadn't left.
That realization confused me more than fear ever could.
I swallowed. My throat hurt from crying.
"You're awake," he said quietly, without looking up.
"For how long?" I asked.
"Long enough," he replied.
I pushed myself up on one elbow. My muscles protested, but they obeyed. "Why were they here?"
Silence.
The kind that wasn't accidental.
"Aren," I warned, voice thin but steady. "Don't lie to me."
He finally looked at me.
And this time, there was no mask.
"They disobeyed," he said. "They thought proximity meant permission."
My fingers curled into the sheet. "You brought them here."
"Yes."
The honesty hit harder than denial would have.
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because this place isn't as sealed as it should be," Aren said. "And because I needed to know who would test the boundaries first."
I stared at him, disbelief mixing with a bitter laugh. "So I was bait."
"No," he said immediately. Too fast. "You were the line."
That didn't comfort me.
"That doesn't make it better."
"I know."
He stood, walking to the window, putting distance between us like he was afraid of standing too close. "Nothing about this is good. Or clean. Or fair."
I hugged my knees to my chest. "Then let me go."
His shoulders tensed.
"You can't," he said.
"Why?" My voice cracked again. "Why me? Why does everyone keep deciding my life like it's a chess piece?"
He turned slowly.
"Because you're already on the board," Aren said. "And because you don't know what square you're standing on."
I shook my head. "Stop talking in riddles."
"I can't," he replied softly. "Not yet."
Anger flared—hot, sharp, cutting through the haze. "You keep saying that. Not yet.Later.When time comes. Do you know what that sounds like?"
He waited.
"It sounds like control."
Aren didn't deny it.
"Yes," he said. "It is."
The word landed heavy between us.
"But not ownership," he continued. "And not desire. Don't confuse those."
"Then what?" I demanded. "Protection? Manipulation? Strategy?"
"All of them," he said. "And one truth you're not ready to hear."
I laughed again, hollow. "You give me too much credit. I've survived worse than you think."
"I know," he said quietly. "That's why this is dangerous."
I searched his face, trying to find cruelty, obsession—something simple to hate.
Instead, I found restraint.
That scared me more.
"You talked to Kieller," I said suddenly. "I heard his voice."
Aren's jaw tightened.
"What is he to you?" I asked. "And don't tell me it's business."
He looked away.
"That's the problem," he said. "It stopped being just business a long time ago."
My stomach dropped.
"You said he made me a target."
"Yes."
"How?"
Aren walked back toward the bed, stopping just short of touching distance. "By putting you in a place where people would try to reach him through you."
"I chose my position," I snapped. "He didn't force me."
"No," Aren agreed. "He didn't force you."
Then, colder:
"He anticipated you."
The room felt smaller.
"You think he planned this," I said slowly.
"I think," Aren replied, "that Kieller never enters a war without knowing what he's willing to sacrifice."
The word sacrifice lodged itself deep in my chest.
"You're lying," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.
"I hope I am," Aren answered honestly. "Because if I'm not—"
He stopped.
Finished the sentence in his head instead.
I lay back slowly, exhaustion winning again. My eyelids burned, my thoughts tangled.
"Don't let anyone else in," I murmured. "Not tonight."
"You have my word," Aren said.
I closed my eyes.
Just before sleep claimed me again, I heard him speak—low, almost to himself.
"This isn't how I wanted it to begin."
Begin.
That single word echoed.
Because whatever this was—
It wasn't over.
It had just started.