"Cough! What do you want from me?" Lyra gasped, struggling against the grip.
Yvette's gaze crawled over her, lingering on the crimson mark blooming across her cheek.
"Perfect," she whispered, releasing her at last.
Beneath her calm, jealousy burned low in her chest. Lyra's beauty was effortless, unearned, while hers had been carved from pain, pieced together by surgeons' hands.
Her eyes glinting with quiet malice. "What I want? Isn't it obvious?"
Lyra tilted her head slightly, trying to mask her fear. "I don't understand," she whispered.
She racked her brain, who on earth was this woman. Had she been the one whose stitches she sewed a bit too enthusiastically? Maybe she'd come back for a refund and revenge.
Yvette arched an eyebrow, leaning in until her breath brushed against Lyra's skin. The acrid stench of smoke filled the space between them, catching in Lyra's throat until she choked.
"It's okay… you'll understand soon."
Lyra's heart stumbled in her chest. Understand what? The question burned in her mind. She could only stare as Yvette's gaze darkened and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face.
Yvette let her fingers hover near Lyra's collarbone, testing the edge of a game she shouldn't play. Still, there was something disturbingly fascinating about the fear in Lyra's eyes.
It slid lower, following the faint dip between the twin curves, and before she could stop herself, desire surged, itching to devour it.
Lyra shrank back against the bed as the dangerous glint in Yvette's eyes met hers.
"Don't touch me!" she shouted, crossing her arms over her chest.
The man at the door elbowed his partner, lifting his brows twice in silent suggestion. The other rubbed his palms together, tongue darting out as he smirked.
"Don't forget to share late dinner with us, Yvette!" he teased.
They weren't talking about food—Lyra was the meal.
Lyra froze. So this was the woman Kane had mentioned that night.
Yvette spun around sharply. "Oi! Didn't I tell you not to say my name, you moron?"
"Ah, sorry, sorry—we slipped," they both stammered, hands raised in surrender.
Yvette groaned, realizing she'd just given herself away. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. She won't be crawling back to her husband anyway."
A sudden screech of tires tore through the air, followed by the low growl of an engine. One of the men darted to the door.
"They've arrived!" he barked.
"Ah, my golden bar's here," Yvette purred, the buyer she's been waiting on has finally arrived.
Her fingers curling around the base of Lyra's neck, lifting her chin.
"I'll make sure Rowan gets a ticket to that little show. Wonder if your husband will have the guts to come."
The low thud of approaching boots made Lyra's stomach twist. Her eyes snapped to the door.
"Tie her up," Yvette ordered.
One of the men dropped his rifle. A low, hungry groan escaped him as his eyes roamed, eager to touch. He lunged, grabbing her roughly.
Lyra fought back in panic, twisting violently, thrashing and kicking. "Don't touch me!" she screamed, adrenaline and fear coursing through her veins.
"Hey!"
The voice cut through the chaos. A tall man stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Each step oozed menace.
He had a neatly trimmed beard, sharp features hardened by time. Late thirties, maybe. The leather jacket he wore caught the dim light, stretching over broad shoulders.
His dark eyes glinted dangerously.
A cigarette dangled from his lips, the tip glowing like a heartbeat in the dark. His fingers brushed the edge of his jacket. He was armed.
"Easy," he warned, his voice rough and gravelly. "Don't ruin what's mine."
He tilted his head slightly, a silent order to leave and the man slunk away without a word.
Slowly, James closed the gap, his gaze locked on Lyra, small and trembling in his shadow.
"Tsk. Who did this?" he asked, as his thumb brushed the red mark on her cheek.
Yvette snorted. "It's just a scratch, Mr. Dolan. No need to make a scene."
James turned his head toward her, his gaze sharp enough to cut. "Meaning?"
Yvette lifted her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay—I did it. But she was being stubborn!"
Lyra shook her head weakly. "No, I wasn't" she murmured. Yvette had been rough with her, yet blamed her anyway. Lyra wouldn't let it slide.
"Yvette Windsor—you knew exactly what it would cost to deceive me and destroy what's mine… and you did it anyway!" James growled, his voice like ice.
He brushed a hand through Lyra's hair, but his gaze had already shifted to Yvette, cold, like a cat studying a trembling mouse.
"Bind her. Then finish the rest," he said, voice low and edged with authority.
She stepped back a little, fingers trembling at her sides. "Mr. Dolan! I can explain—" she began, her voice thin.
James didn't bother to look. He let his men do the dirty work, dragging her out of the room.
"Give my money and let me go!" Yvette screamed, ropes cutting into her wrists as she thrashed.
A man leaned in, snorting. "You'll get it… and you won't like it."
She spat, teeth clenched. "Bastards. Rot in hell." The words dripped with venom.
The man holding her snarled, "Shut your mouth, you worthless brat!"
Without warning, he kicked her squarely in the face. She crashed to the floor, blood mixing with the bruise blossoming across her cheek, pain shooting through her skull.
Yvette tried to roll away, trembling and gasping, but the shadows of the men closing in left her with no escape. Her two companions were nowhere in sight, perhaps vanished into the darkness, leaving her to face the consequences alone.
James grabbed Lyra's shoulder and began leading her out. "Come on, pet."
Lyra hesitated. "Where are we going, mister?" she asked, hands trembling, knowing she had to play obedient and wait for the right moment.
He didn't answer, but halted at the door, his gaze dropping to her bare feet.
"Hold on." With a swift motion, he lifted her and slung her over his shoulder. Lyra screamed, stunned by the sudden movement.
She kicked lightly, struggling. "Let me go! I can walk," she pleaded.
"No, you can't. You'll only hurt your feet," he said and the sound of creaking and cracking tiles echoing beneath his steps.
Lyra froze, unsure what to say. He actually seemed to care, even slightly—but she couldn't trust him. He had called her "pet"! What did he think she was, some kind of animal?