Mine to Fuck

CHAPTER 3

Lyra's POV 

Killian stood up, his naked body towering with strong muscles adorned with tattoos, his chain swinging as he took one step towards me.

“That marriage certificate makes you mine,” he growled. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ignore. Mine to get rid of if you turn into a pain in my ass. So fix your attitude, princess, or I’ll do it for you.”

We faced off, close and tense. His breath heavy, mine ice cold.

“Yours?” I repeated softly, cocking my head. “You think a piece of paper makes me yours?”

“That’s right.”

I dragged my gaze over him. Down. Then back up. Slowly. Letting my disgust show in every glance. “I have seen bigger dicks on twelve-year-olds. If that sad excuse for masculinity is what’s keeping you afloat, Killian, you are already drowning.”

The women gasped, and one even choked on her laughter.

Killian’s face turned red with anger. “You fucking bitch…”

I was already walking without looking back. His voice echoed after me, slurred threats and wounded pride, but it bounced off me like rain on steel.

Killian Maddox was exactly what I hoped he would be. Weak, vulgar, and unworthy of the empire he stumbled into.

When the time comes to burn this kingdom to the ground, he will be my first target. And I will enjoy every damn second of it.

But before that, I needed a drink.

Maybe even ten.

The bitter taste of failure sat on my tongue as I strolled through the compound. This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to go. I was supposed to seduce him, play the good little wife, and get close enough to find cracks in the Revenant operation.

But how do I seduce a man like that? How do I play the long game when the king of the castle is a reckless junkie who already sees me as a threat?

I pushed open the bar doors, the music blaring even louder inside. Men were laughing, cursing, and downing whiskey like it was nothing. Ignoring the noise, I headed straight for the counter.

“Vodka,” I snapped to the bartender. “Double. And leave the bottle.”

He raised an eyebrow, noticing the ring on my finger, then poured the drink.

I downed it in one go. The fiery liquid felt like gasoline, but it was exactly what I needed.

The pain behind my ribs didn’t ease though. The loneliness in this place was intense. It felt like everyone here saw me as either a trophy or a target. Nothing in between.

And in the middle of it all, I was supposed to carry out a mission. To spy, destroy and win.

“Ma’am, I think you should slow down. That’s your third bottle,” Tommy adviced.

I didn’t even blink. Just pointed at the empty glass like it had personally offended me.

“Keep them coming,” I slurred. “Unless you want me to smash this bottle over your pretty little register.”

He poured another drink without a word. Smart man.

The bar was nearly dead, with just a few Iron Revenants gathered around a pool table in the back, whispering and watching me like I might erupt. I didn’t blame them. I felt like a ticking time bomb.

I downed the whiskey in one gulp, no chaser, no pause. It burned all the way down, but it helped numb the stupid memory of Killian with another woman, the coke, and the goddamn laughter.

I took another shot and pushed the glass forward again. “Another.”

Tommy hesitated. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

“Having a bad day?” The voice wasn’t Tommy’s.

I turned around, ready to bite back, but the words died in my throat.

He was tall. Built like sin. Broad shoulders under a black shirt that clung like it was made just for him. He had that silver-threaded dark hair, a jaw carved from stone, and eyes—icy, steel gray—that locked on mine like they could pull secrets from my spine.

He didn’t belong here.

He belonged on a billboard, or maybe on top of someone’s bike, head back, throttle down, racing through the world like it owed him.

“You could say that,” I replied, trying not to let my eyes drop to his chest or the vein running down his forearm as he leaned against the bar.

Leather. Motor oil. Smoke. That was his scent, mixed with something expensive.

“Tommy,” he said casually, “Macallan 25.”

Tommy didn’t even blink, just reached for a bottle that probably cost more than my wedding ring.

Who the hell was this man?

“Mind if I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“My husband’s family owns this place,” I muttered, raising my glass again. “Pretty sure my drinks are already paid for.”

A slight smile played on his lips, not arrogant, but calculated. "Ah, so you are the new Mrs. Maddox.”

“Lucky me,” I raised the glass in a bitter toast. “Living the fucking dream.”

He took a sip of his drink, nodded at Tommy, then turned back to me with an expression I couldn’t read.

“Marriage not what you expected?”

And just like that, the words spilled out uncontrollably, fueled by the whiskey. I hadn't intended to share, but the alcohol had loosened my tongue.

“I knew I was marrying into a mess, you know. But I wasn’t expecting a junkie with a god complex and a rotating door of plastic bimbos.”

His brow ticked up, but no surprise. Just… something darker. 

“On our wedding night, he chugged a bottle of whiskey and passed out cold. Day two? I caught him getting blown by two women high out of their skulls while he called me ‘peace treaty pussy.’”

That got a reaction.

The man’s jaw flexed, and his fingers curled slightly around the glass.

“He said that?” His voice was eeirly calm now.

“Not directly to me,” I muttered with a bitter smile. “To the two girls licking coke off his chest. Said I probably didn’t know what a real cock looked like.”

He didn’t laugh or even blink. He just stared like I had peeled back my skin and handed him my bones.

I looked away… only for a second. But the heat in my chest wasn’t from the whiskey anymore. It was the weight of that silence that followed.

He leaned back slightly, those steel-gray eyes studying my face like he was reading the parts of me I didn’t say out loud.

“You deserve better than that,” he said finally. His voice low. No pity. Just fact.

Better.

That word hit harder than it should have.

When the hell was the last time anyone thought I deserved anything?

I scoffed, soft and shaky. “Do I? Maybe this is exactly what I’m meant for. Maybe karma is just kicking my ass for all the bad shit I’ve done.”

“We all wear masks, princess. Doesn’t mean what’s underneath isn’t worth protecting.”

I froze. Because that? That felt personal. Like he was peeling me open on purpose.

This man, this stranger, was showing me more warmth in ten minutes than my husband had in two days of shared vows and cold sheets.

“What’s your name?” I suddenly asked.