CHAPTER 007

LYRA

The chair scrapes as I drag it out, and I sit, settling my hands in my lap under the table.

I cannot bring myself to look at him. Maybe if I stare at my fingers long enough, I’ll look up and find myself back in my apartment watching some trash TV.

Silence stretches for a long moment before he clears his throat and sets his glass on the table with a gentle thud. I look up, the tension radiating across the room heating my skin as I finally meet his gaze again.

Ice. Cold. Blue.  

A small, shaky breath escapes me, but I swallow it, forcing my eyes away from him and down to the spread. My stomach gnaws at my ribs, and my mouth waters from the rich smell. Everything looks meticulously prepared, and after days without eating, the scent alone is torture.

“Have at it.” I look up to find his hand motioning toward the food. “You can have anything you want.”

God, it's tempting. My stomach turns at the thought of the flavors in my mouth, but I can’t. I need to keep my eyes on the prize. Figure out where the hell I am, and who this guy really is.

“No, thank you,” I mutter, straightening my spine and pulling my eyes from the food back to him.

He scoffs, sinking lower into his chair and taking a sip of his drink. “Suit yourself. You want to starve… go ahead.”

His bored tone makes my skin crawl, and a bitter taste floods my mouth. He truly is a monster. I am supposed to be his wife, and he wouldn’t care if I starved to death at his own table. Off to a great start.

“I called you in here to go over some ground rules before we move forward.”

“Rules?” The word slips out before I can stop it.

“Yes, rules. Starting with you wiping that expression off your face whenever you are in front of people. I can’t have them thinking I am holding you here against your will.”

“But you are.” It slips again, and I regret it immediately.

His expression freezes into pure ice. I must have struck a nerve, or worse, spoken back before he gave me permission to.

I expect him to pull out a knife or a gun, instead, he leans forward, slowly tapping his fingers on the table. “You are here because, one, you stole from me, and two, because I saved your life. Feel free to return what you stole and the ten million dollars I settled for you at any time. Do that, and you can leave.” One dark brow arches upward, letting the heavy words settle between us.

He paid off the bikers. My family is safe. He actually kept his word.

My fingers curl into my palms, and I swallow hard, looking down in a brief wave of embarrassment before meeting his eyes again. “What’s the second rule?”

He hesitates, adjusting his watch twice. “Whenever we are in public, you play the dutiful wife. Use that impressive acting you’ve been doing with me to convince people this is a real marriage.”

I look away, a spike of unease shooting through me. What is going to happen when he finally realizes I don’t have what he thinks I do and he lost ten million dollars in the process?

“Who are these people? Your family?” I ask, before he notices the sweat pooling at my nape even though I am not entirely sure he hasn’t already.

He downs the rest of his drink in one smooth swallow, and not a single muscle in his face twitches. I know it’s liquor, but who drinks it like that without flinching at the burn? Serial killers that’s who.

“Yes. And the public,” he clarifies.

My nails dig deeper into my palms under the table. A man with his wealth and power could have any willing woman he wants. Why the hell would he choose someone like me to play this role?

I do the only thing I can. I give a single nod. “Okay.”

I feel the heavy weight of his stare, just before it’s broken with the screech of his chair as he pushes back.

He walks toward me, something white gripped in his hand, his eyes never leaving me. I shift in my seat, my feet bracing against the floor, ready to jolt up and run, but he closes the distance in one massive stride and cages me in.

The heat radiating off his body hits my skin like an open furnace, and every hair on the back of my neck spikes. Without looking, I can feel his eyes drop to where the thin silk leaves my nipples clearly visible, and a violent wave of exposure hits me. I quickly fold my arms across my front, creating a physical barrier. It’s a childish move, but I don’t care.

“Sign this.” He slaps a paper down in front of me, followed by an expensive, engraved pen with the initials C.B.

I stare down at the paper, and the title is in bold, unmistakable letters. Marriage Certificate. How the hell did he get one of these so quickly? The knot in my stomach pulls agonizingly tight, panic gripping every bone in my body. His sheer proximity isn’t helping at all.

My eyes dart across the document, and I see my name, Lyra Wells, and right next to it, Callum Bishop.

So that’s his name. Callum Bishop. Why does it sound so familiar?

I go over the document one more time, and my world narrows with each passing letter. This is it. Once I sign this paper, I am signing away everything I have ever known. My hands drop to my sides, my defensive posture gone, and I reach for the pen.

I am a second away from signing when I stop and look up. He is now leaning in so close I can feel his breath ghosting over my skin.

“I have questions of my own,” I mutter, my voice shaking so badly it sounds like I am being choked.

He straightens, squares his shoulders, and I watch his jaw clench hard before he gives a dismissive shrug, his version of an eye roll. “This isn’t a negotiation. I hope you know that,” he snarls, taking a step back.

I nod, drop the pen back onto the table, and twist in my chair to face him fully. “I am not negotiating. I just want to know what I am walking into. Will I still be able to have my life outside of this? For starters, will I still be allowed to teach at my school?”

“You are a fucking thief, goddammit. I am pretty sure that school is just another façade.” His tone grows irritable, patience snapping.

Goosebumps erupt over my arms, but I don’t let him see. I force myself to look him directly in the eye, masking my terror. “Doesn’t matter. Am I allowed, yes or no?”

“No,” he snaps. Flat. No explanation. “Anything else? You are wasting my time.”

“Why? Why can’t I—” Before the words roll out of my mouth, he stalks across the floorboards and his large hand clamps around my throat, cutting off my air in a brutal vice grip. He leans in, his breath hot against my ear.

“Listen to me, because I will say this once. I own you. You will do everything I say, go where I tell you to go, eat what I offer, and speak only when spoken to. You are a prisoner until you return what you stole. Until then, shut that little mouth, sign the goddamn paper, and stop asking me questions.” He releases his grip and roughly shoves my chin away.

I gasp, the sudden rush of air burning like acid in my throat, and even before my vision clears, he snatches the pen, jams it hard into my palm, and taps the paper.

“Sign. Now.”

With a trembling hand, I tighten my fingers around the heavy metal and sign the document, hot tears welling in my eyes. The second the ink dries, he snatches the paper off the table, stares at my signature for a long, silent moment, then turns on his heel, storms out of the room, and slams the heavy door behind him.

A ragged breath escapes me, and I clutch my chest with one hand, my other hand gripping the armrest like a lifeline. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers crushing my windpipe. He was going to kill me.

I remain frozen in that chair for a long time, replaying everything in my head. And as I do, something new begins to build inside me. Something much stronger than fear, regret, or sadness.

Hate.

I hate this man. I hate Callum Bishop. Even more now that he is my husband.