CHAPTER 3

Lyra’s POV

The quiet in the club's back hallway felt thick and heavy. My skin still tingled from Jeremy's touch. My head spun with fear and a need I didn't understand. I leaned against the cool wall, trying to breathe, trying to pull myself together.

The door flew open and slammed against the wall. A man walked in, and for a second, I thought it was Jeremy. He had the same strong body, the same dark, sharp eyes.

But it wasn't him. This man was all hard lines and wild energy, like a storm in a black leather jacket. He didn't even look at me. He just pushed past and threw open Jeremy's office door without knocking.

I knew I shouldn't, but I moved closer. The door was open just a crack. I could hear them talking.

"You're pushing too hard, Jeremy," the man's voice was low and angry. "The North Side won't just give up because you want them to."

"I didn't ask what you think, Raphael." Jeremy's voice was cold as ice. "You do what I tell you. That's your job."

Raphael. The name stuck in my head. His brother. They looked so alike, both had that raw power, but Jeremy kept his under control. Raphael's was wild, barely held back.

"My job?" Raphael laughed, bitter and harsh. "I'm not just one of your beta. This is my pack too. Your stubbornness is going to start a war we can't win."

"The only war that matters is the one I say matters," Jeremy shot back. "Now get out. You're wasting my time."

The door flew open. Raphael stormed out, eyes blazing. He stopped when he saw me. His eyes moved over me from head to toe, stopping at my torn shirt strap. Something flashed in his eyes—surprise? Recognition?—before his face went hard. He brushed past me, shoulder hitting mine, and disappeared down the hall.

I stood there, heart pounding. That look... it felt like Jeremy's, but different. Just as strong, but without the claim. It was just... checking me out.

I took a shaky breath and pushed the office door open. Jeremy stood behind his desk, back to me, fists pressed on the wood.

"Who was that?" I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted.

He didn't turn. "No one you need to know about."

It felt like a slap. After everything that just happened, after he held me and whispered that I was his, he was shutting me out. The cold in his voice made my stomach hurt.

"It looked like it mattered to you," I pushed back, anger cutting through my confusion. "He looked just like you."

That made him turn. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "I said it doesn't matter to you. Pack business isn't your business, Lyra. Stay in your place. Dance. Take your money. Be there when I want you. That's all you need to think about."

Be there when I want you. The words made me feel like nothing. Just a body. Something useful.

Hurt and sharp, hot anger rushed through me. "Right. Sorry. I forgot my place." I didn't wait for him to answer. I turned and walked out, my heels clicking sharp and angry on the floor.

I finished my shift in a fog, moving like a robot on stage, seeing nothing. Jeremy's words kept playing in my head. That's all you need to think about. The empty feeling came back, colder than before.

I finally walked out into the cool night air. The club door swung shut behind me, locking me out. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling more alone than ever. I had nowhere to go.

I took a step and bumped straight into a solid wall of leather and man. I stumbled back, ready to say sorry.

It was Raphael.

He was leaning heavy against the brick wall next to the club, eyes closed. The sharp smell of whiskey hit me. He was drunk. Really drunk.

"Watch it," he mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Sorry, I..." I started to walk away, but something stopped me. He looked... broken. So different from the angry man from before. And that strange pull, the same weird connection I felt with Jeremy, tugged at me.

I couldn't just leave him here. "Hey. Are you okay?"

His eyes opened. They were the same dark color as Jeremy's, but blurry with alcohol and something deeper—a sadness that spoke to the broken parts of me. He looked at me, slowly recognizing me.

"You," he mumbled. "Office girl."

"Yeah. Me." I sighed. "Come on. You can't stay here. Where do you live?"

He just grunted and waved down the street. It took all my strength to get him moving, his heavy arm over my shoulders, his weight almost knocking us over with every step. He smelled like whiskey, leather, and the same expensive cologne Jeremy wore.

What are you doing? my mind screamed. This is a bad idea.

But my feet kept moving, leading us through the quiet streets to a beat-up apartment building. He fumbled with his keys, and I finally got the door open.

His apartment was bare, almost empty. A couch, a bed, a few boxes. It felt temporary, like a place to crash, not a home.

I helped him to the bed, and he fell onto it, pulling me down with him. I landed half on top of him, my hands on his hard chest. We froze there, his breath warm on my face, our eyes locked.

The tension from the office, the anger, the alcohol, the raw pull between us—it all exploded at once.

"You shouldn't be here," he said roughly, but his hands came up, fingers in my hair.

"I know," I whispered, but I was already leaning closer.

“Ah more…”

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against my wet skin, his breath hot. His hands were under my top, rough hands moving up my ribs, and I felt him shiver. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

My mind screamed a lot of warnings. This was a bad idea. He was going to leave again. This would ruin everything.

My body, though, had a different, much stronger idea. My back lifted off the bed, wanting more of his weight, more of his warmth. I didn’t want you to stop. I wanted you to help me forget everything else.

I didn’t say the words. I showed him.

My fingers, shaky and urgent in a way I didn’t know before, went to the bottom of my top and pulled it over my head. The cold air hit my skin, and then I felt the burning heat of his eyes. His eyes went darker, watching me.

“Jesus, Kitten,” he breathed, the nickname sounding almost like a prayer.

He pulled off his leather jacket, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy sound. His own shirt came off quickly, showing his hard chest, a little dark hair, and the tight muscles of his stomach.

He came down over me, his skin warm and damp against mine. Feeling him, strong and real, was almost too much for me. My hands moved up his arms, over his strong shoulders, learning the shape of him I had only dreamed about.

His hips moved between my legs. The rough jeans he wore were very different from my soft skirt. The pressure was sweet, a promise of what was coming. He let out a low moan, a real, deep sound of need that matched mine.

One of his hands slid down, his fingers fast and needing, pulling at the top of my skirt. The button came open with a small pop. The zipper made a soft sound as it went down.

“I want to hear you,” he whispered, his voice rough with want. “I want to hear what I do to you.”

When he finished, it sounded like a growl, his body shaking against mine. I felt it like a huge wave, taking me with him, and I followed him, letting the feeling cover up everything else—the guilt, the shame, the fear. For a few seconds, there was only us, both broken and hurting, trying to forget.

And then it was over. He fell beside me, his chest rising and falling, his eyes already closing. I lay there, looking at the ceiling, the truth of what we’d done covering me like a heavy blanket.

What have you done?

I was no better than my mother thought I was. I let one man claim me and then ran straight to another, all in one night. A whore. That's all I was.

I slid out from under his arm, my body aching. I found my clothes on the floor and dressed with shaking hands. I didn't look back as I slipped out the door, shame burning like poison inside me.

The next night, I walked into the club like nothing happened. I had nowhere else to go.

Jeremy was at the bar, back to me. He turned as I got closer, and his eyes narrowed. He breathed in deep, and his whole body went still. His face, usually so controlled, went dark with a storm I'd never seen.

He moved toward me, like a hunter. "Where were you last night?" he demanded, voice dangerously low.

The guilt made me defensive, angry. "None of your business."

"Everything about you is my business." He crowded me, finger pointing near my face. "I can smell him on you. Raphael. You smell like him."

"So what?" I shot back, my own anger rising. "You don't own me, Jeremy. You told me to stay in my place, remember? Well, my place doesn't include explaining myself to you."

His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. "I own every breath you take in this place. I own the clothes on your back. I own you. Now, tell me what you were doing with my brother."

The word own was a trigger. I yanked my arm free, shoving him back. "I don't belong to anyone! Not to you, not to him, not to this dirty club! I'm not your property!"

His face went cold, all feeling draining away until he was just a mask of icy nothing. "Fine."

The single word was like a door slamming shut.

"If that's how you feel," he said, tone flat and final, "then get out. Don't come back. You're done here."

The coldness in his eyes was worse than his anger. It was complete dismissal. He didn't care.

Tears of anger and hurt burned behind my eyes, but I wouldn't let them fall. My pride was all I had left. "Gladly."

I turned and walked out, head held high. The door clicked shut behind me for the last time. I was free.

So why did it feel like I'd just jumped off a cliff? The city streets stretched out before me, empty and endless. I had no plan. No money. No one.

And from deep inside, the wild, confused part of me that responded to both of them, the part that felt like it was his, let out a silent, desperate cry of loss. But I kept walking. I would never go back.