Destruction

CHAPTER 1

Lyra's POV 

I never imagined I would be wearing white at my own funeral, but that was exactly what this felt like - a

 wedding disguised as a goddamn funeral.

I was about to marry into the Iron Revenants, the very same bastards who put my mother six feet under. They were my enemies, the family of the man who pulled the trigger and left my mother bleeding in the dirt like roadkill.

Grave Maddox.

I had been thirteen when they brought her body back. Barely a kid, but old enough to grasp the gruesome details. She had begged for mercy, but he showed none. One shot. Clean and final. My father recounted the story so many times that it carved itself into my very being. A bedtime story soaked in blood.

I swore on her graveside that I would burn them all to ash.

And now, here I was, walking down an aisle lined with chrome and roses, heading straight into the lion’s den with a knife strapped to my thigh and revenge curled tightly inside my gut like a fist.

The rev of bikes outside rumbled like a heartbeat. The compound stank of oil, leather, cigar smoke, and secrets. Tulle and flowers drooped over Harley frames like some sick joke. The scent of gasoline clung to everything. I couldn’t breathe without tasting rage.

“Remember what they did to her,” my father, Vincent “Venom” Kane, president of the Crimson Fangs, growled beside me. His grip on my arm was tight, grounding. “Remember why you are here.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I whispered in a steady voice.

I had trained for this moment. Smiled in mirrors until the lies looked like truth. Slept with my blade under my pillow and swore to be the force that tore the Revenants apart from the inside out.

At the altar, he waited. 

Killian Maddox. My soon-to-be husband.

Dressed in black suit, with broad shoulders and slicked-back hair. His tattooed knuckles tensed at his sides, like he was already ready to throw down.

And damn me to hell… he looked good. Dangerously good.

The kind of man that made girls with daddy issues forget their names. Rough-cut jaw. Eyes like sin dipped in whiskey. A smirk that promised pain before it ever offered pleasure.

But I knew better. That face was carved from the same bloodline that ended my mother.

Killian Maddox was the devil in leather. And I was about to marry him.

“You look like trouble,” he whispered as I reached him.

“You have no idea,” I replied, the smile I gave him sharpened at the edges.

He chuckled, slow and easy, like he didn’t see the poison under the lace. His breath reeked of top-shelf whiskey, and I wondered if he was half-drunk or just naturally reckless.

The MC chaplain, tatted from collar to wrist with eyes that seemed to have witnessed hell, stepped forward. He started reciting the vows, but the words all blurred into background noise.

My eyes swept the crowd.

Crimson Fangs on the left. Iron Revenants on the right. Leather cuts. Hard stares. No one trusted anyone. 

And somewhere in that sea of bikers, Marcus was watching.

Marcus, the boy who kissed my bruises and loaded my gun. My ride-or-die. The only one who knew the full plan.

“This is the only way in, baby,” he had said, pressing his forehead to mine. “Get close. Real close. When you see your shot, take it. I’ll be here when the smoke clears.”

I took a deep breath, clinging to his words like they were my only hope.

But as I scanned the crowd for the man I really came for, my stomach twisted.

Dominic “Grave” Maddox. The monster who shattered my world. 

He wasn’t here.

“Where’s your old man?” I asked Killian, keeping my voice low and calm as the chaplain took a moment to catch his breath.

He shrugged. “Business in Phoenix. Back in a few days.”

Just like that. No guilt or hesitation.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Killian added with a smirk. “You will meet him real soon.”

My fingers itched for the knife under my dress at that moment.

I had prepared for this showdown for years. Practiced how I would look him in the eyes without blinking, without screaming, without driving a blade through his chest on sight.

Now I had to wait.

Fine.

Let him come home to hell.

The chaplain’s voice rose again. “Lyra Cross, do you take Killian Maddox to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”

Till death do us part. How fitting.

I stared into Killian’s eyes—smoky, unreadable—and smiled.

“I do.”

His lips twitched. Not surprised. Not moved. Just… entertained.

The ring he slid on my finger sparkled like a big, cold sin.

“And do you, Killian Maddox…”

“I do,” he said before the chaplain could finish, not looking away from me.

The crowd erupted in applause, the atmosphere tense and empty.

Killian wrapped an arm around my waist. His grip was strong, possessive. He leaned in like he owned me now.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the crowd, his voice smug, “I give you my wife. Lyra Maddox.”

The name left a bitter taste in my mouth, like rust.

I raised my hand, smiled for the vultures, and played the perfect little bride as we made our way into the clubhouse where champagne flowed and cigars burned in celebration.

I caught my father’s gaze from across the room. He gave me a nod that said phase one was complete.

They thought they married a pawn today. But I was never a pawn.

I was the goddamn queen, and they just gave me a front-row seat to their own destruction.

This wasn’t a just wedding; it was a blood pact waiting to be broken.

And the minute Grave Maddox walked through that door…

I was going to slit the devil’s throat with the same hands that wore his son's ring.