Stolen By The Mirror, Claimed By The Prince

The first thing Lyra saw when she pried open her crusty eyes with her head throbbing was a glint of steel. An actual blade. Sharp. Real. And terrifyingly close. It hovered about an inch from her throat, catching the light.

The second thing she noticed, right after the “oh my god I’m about to die” realization was the man holding the blade.

Lyra was momentarily stunned. She was lying in what appeared to be a pile of dried leaves. Outside. In the woods. In nothing but her oversized sleep shirt—which, to her horror, still had the unmistakable coffee stain from last Thursday’s caffeine mishap and the words “NOT TODAY, SATAN” stretched across the front in bold, unapologetic font.

Lyra instinctively looked down at herself, groaned, and then looked back up at him. “Okay, so not my best look,” she muttered. “But really, you’d stab me because I look like shit? What are you? A barbarian?”

His grip tightened slightly on the blade. “Lirae?” he asked confused.

Lyra blinked. “Gesundheit?”

His brow furrowed. The blade edged a fraction closer. Just enough to make her throat tingle in that oh-great-now-I’m-definitely-going-to-die way.

“Okay, okay,” she said quickly, raising her hands in surrender. “Just so we’re on the same page…I don’t have any money. I’m broke. Like, can’t-even-afford-N*****x-with-ads broke. The only thing I own is a dilapidated house that smells.”

She paused, trying not to breathe too deeply. “Also, full disclosure, I scream like a banshee and faint at the sight of blood. So, if you are going to stab me, maybe do it from behind? That way I don’t have to see it coming and you don’t have to deal with me shrieking in your face. Win-win.”

The man whispered again, more to himself than to her. “It can’t be…”

“Okay, seriously,” Lyra said,. “If you’re going to kill me, can you at least tell me why? Did I cut you off in traffic? Did I steal your parking spot?”

“What are you talking about?” the stupidly gorgeous man asked. Lyra was starting to suspect he wasn’t the blade-wielding psycho she first thought.

“Well,” Lyra began, swallowing hard as her eyes flicked between his face and the still-very-present blade, “you have a knife to my neck, so it's only logical to assume you want something.”

 “Oh my God,” she gasped suddenly, panic making her voice rise an octave. “Is it sex you want?” She looked horrified. “Because I have to warn you…I’m a huge disappointment in that area. Truly. My ex-boyfriend dumped me for a stripper named Heaven, and if that isn’t the universe giving me a performance review, I don’t know what is.”

She kept talking—fast, nervous. “I mean, I haven’t shaved my legs in a week. Honestly, you could do better. Like way better. Maybe try that tree over there—it’s probably less emotionally needy than I am.”

The man lowered the blade and offered her his hand.

Lyra stared at it suspiciously before taking it. His grip was strong, warm, steady—completely at odds with the total mess she felt like. He pulled her up gently, though her legs wobbled and she immediately tripped over her own foot and crashed into him.

His arm came around her instinctively, catching her with far too much ease. For one dangerous moment, their bodies pressed together and Lyra's heart did a triple backflip.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I mean, physically? Maybe. Mentally? Probably not. Emotionally?” She snorted.

He looked at her, head tilted slightly. “Did you hit your head or something? You are Lirae?”

“Lira,” she corrected automatically, brushing dirt from her arms as leaves clung to her.

“Lirae,” he repeated with emphasis, like the name itself held power.

“I—I’m not whoever that is,” she said quickly, wrapping her arms around herself as the cool air finally registered. Her bare legs were scratched, twigs tangled in her hair, and all of this was so not how she imagined spending her Saturday morning.

“But you died,” he said. His eyes darkened, haunted. “I buried you myself.”

Lyra’s jaw dropped. “Say what now?” She leaned forward incredulously, at the same moment he stepped in, reaching for a leaf tangled in her hair. Their faces stopped mere inches apart. She could see the flecks of silver in his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re not the one who hit his head?” she asked.

His fingers grazed her temple. “Who are you?” he asked, almost a whisper now.

“I am Lira Beckham. My aunt willed this place to me.” She tugged nervously at the hem of her oversized sleep shirt, hoping it somehow made her sound more convincing.

The man’s expression shifted instantly from confusion to incredulity. His storm-gray eyes narrowed as if he was trying to compute this new piece of information on a very glitchy mental calculator. “Excuse me? What place?” he asked. “My estate?”

Lira’s eyes flicked around, suddenly feeling as if the ground beneath her had turned into quicksand made of awkwardness. “What estate?” she echoed, genuinely baffled now. She cast her gaze around the small clearing, noticing for the first time the twisted trees and the huge mansion in the far background. It was definitely not the cracked, creaky little house she had just inherited.

“What… what is going on?” she asked. “Where am I? Where did you take me?”

The man folded his arms, clearly frustrated with having to explain what must have seemed obvious. “Lady, I found you lying here,” he said, gesturing at the leaves and dirt that still clung to her skin.

Lyra frowned and took a cautious step forward, eyes scanning the surrounding trees, unsure whether she was in a mystical forest or a very elaborate abandoned backyard. “Just out of curiosity,” she said, raising one eyebrow, “where here is?”

“Here,” he answered flatly, “covered in leaves and a little bit of bird poop.”

Her nose wrinkled in horror. “Oh my God! Where?” She immediately started poking at her face and hair, sniffing delicately. “Get it off! Get it off!” she hissed, trying to pinpoint the exact spot where the offending poop might be hiding. “Bird poop is like the herpes of outdoor stains. It just never fully goes away.”