Chapter 9

LYRA

Stepping out of the uber, my arms tighten around the book as a shiver runs down my spine. It's daylight for a few more hours, but that doesn't take away from what happened here. I need answers, and this is the only way to get them. My boots crunch on the gravel with every step, filling the silence.

My father's gravestone comes into view, not a thing out of place. I expect some blood, signs of a struggle, something to indicate the events that took place, but there isn't a speck to be seen. Some fresh, reddened leaves have fallen, but otherwise, nothing. I couldn't have imagined it, no matter how much whiskey I drank. Everything had to have been real.

Running my fingers along the moss, I follow the trail from when I was here last. The imprint a stark difference from the speckled green covering most of the stone. Scanning the cemetery, I find it completely empty, as usual. Not a single living soul joins me, despite the feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me otherwise.

A familiar scent lingers everywhere I go, smoke and cedar clinging to my pores. At first, I thought it was from his clothes, but even when I'm wearing nothing, it still smells like him. Fainter, yes, but the hint of him is everywhere, enveloping me in its torturing embrace, a taste of something that seems so far from my grasp yet again.

"Hey, Dad." I smile, sitting with my legs crossed, the book in my lap. Its pages are noticeably aged, yellowing and creasing, some of the text fading to a light grey. The lady at the store was lovely, a little odd, but lovely, nonetheless. She handed me this text, telling me it would answer most of my questions that the internet could not.

Sketches fall out as I open the book, drawings of savage-looking black wolves shrouded in smoke. Unmistakably, it's the creature I saw that night, ripping the men to shreds. It's the very same one that chased me through the woods, snapping at my heels and choking me until I passed out.

My cheeks flush at the memory, at the fear running through my veins while I was pinned beneath it. I can feel the warmth building between my thighs at the thought alone, the image seared into my mind as a constant reminder of how I felt looking death in the eye. What I can't explain is the heated reaction my body is having, why it craves to be back there, pinned beneath the beast.

"There has to be a connection somewhere…" I worry my lip, deep in thought as I scan the pages. Small scabs have already started to split across my bottom lip from my fairly consistent assault, a habit I should really work on breaking. One thing at a time.

A hellhound's presence often leaves a light haze of smoke, but humans cannot usually see it because they typically only approach the dead, a new soul destined for a life in the depths of Hell. They do not often injure human life forms unless instructed to do so.

Maybe it knew I was in danger with those men, but it still doesn't explain what happened in the slightest. I watched with my own eyes as it killed one of them, heard enough to know the second met the same fate. The sounds of his screams echo through my ears, the unnerving crunch of bone followed by a snarl. There was no one else in the cemetery; not that I could remember, anyway.

I sit there for hours, scouring the worn pages to find a shred of information that could help, only to come up blank. The other times I've seen the shadows have been on my darkest of dark days, the ones where my will to exist has been snuffed out. I had put it down to hallucinations considering the state I was in at the time, a few handfuls of medication in my stomach and the world around me blurring into nothing.

But that night was different, clearer. I physically felt the beast touching my skin, its face inches from my own. I felt the intense heat of its breath fanning my face as it snapped large canines in my direction—not just a shadow resembling a wolf, but a whole beast with coals where its eyes should be, staring right through my soul. It makes no sense.

What makes even less sense, though, is how the fuck I woke up in the bed of a man I thought was dead all this time. His existence stopped the moment I left. No posts, no updates, nothing. Gone without a trace. Fate had crossed my mind, something else putting us in each other's paths, a sick, twisted universe dangling a carrot of hope, only to rip it from my fingertips.

Tears of frustration roll down my cheeks and onto the words, forcing the ink to spread in blooms across the page. Shit. After dabbing it with my sleeve, I quickly close the book, setting it beside me. Howling wind picks up some of the pages that had fallen out, blowing them toward the dark tree line. Quickly jumping to my feet, I chase after them, bending to pick them up one by one, collecting the little pile against my chest. With the last image, a shift catches the corner of my eye, a shrub shedding leaves while the others cling to theirs.

Running to put everything into my bag, I walk back to the path and deeper into the forest, the same place I ran to that night. Nothing looks astray, no footprints other than my own. Leaves may have covered most of my footprints from the other night, but a light kick reveals nothing out of the ordinary. Just my size seven boots tracking deeper into the trees with a few very obvious slips.

I almost expect to find burn marks or something; the giant wolf seemed like he was on fire, lit from the inside with smoke pouring off his fur. Yet, there's nothing, not a single sign of life here beside me.

There's a larger indent in the debris just ahead of me, where I must have fallen as the footsteps stop at the edge. It doesn't look all that familiar in the daylight, with hints of the sun beaming through small gaps in the trees above. The yellowed beams glisten, small particles swirling in the intense light. It's quite beautiful out here, dead quiet and serene; not even the birds are chirping, just a slight rustle from the leaves.

Dropping my ass onto a broken log, I toy with the pendant around my throat, flipping it between my thumb and forefinger. The metal is cool on my skin, biting into my fingertips. My alarm suddenly blares in my pocket, telling me it's time to head home and get ready for work. My mind isn't really in it today, but I need the money.

Walking around and plastering on a smile while my mind is at war is nothing new to me; it's my normal. I'm used to pretending, being a chameleon through life in hopes that no one notices I'm not like the others, adapting to those around me enough to not provoke further questions. It keeps people at arm's length, or further if I do it right.

But this… This is different. Knowing he is alive is different, that somewhere out there, my person still exists. It may take me days, months even, to find out what's happening, what his connection is to the events of that night, why he ran from me. I have a multitude of unanswered questions, but at least there's a small thread of hope, something to cling to in an otherwise soul-sucking world. I will stop at nothing to find him again.

Despite what he said, the hurt-filled words spilling from him, I know he still cares.

Work isn't somewhere I want to be, my mind not in the game. Despite my best efforts, my thoughts are filled with him—how he felt under my touch, the warmth of his skin, the way he looked at me when he thought I couldn't see him, his eyes filled with something I still haven't quite figured out. His words were one thing, but his body language was another.

When he had me pinned against the wall, snarling crude words against my ear, I felt him, grinding himself against me just a touch, enough to stoke the heat already burning in my core. Yet another reason I know he's full of shit with the words he speaks, pushing me away in one breath but pulling me back in with another.

The dimly lit bar is quiet tonight, mostly regular visitors in the luxe booths. A bar is not my scene in the slightest; the few times I've tried have left me feeling worse than when I walked in. People approached me, asking to buy me drinks with the scent of beer wafting from them. There have been times I've considered taking them up on their offers, breaking whatever fucking curse was put on me all those years ago, yet as soon as my mouth opens, a no slips out.

There has never been anyone with even a fraction of the pull on me that Ryker has, ever. No spark, no warmth, nothing. The moment I realized it was him in the cabin, though, it was instantaneous. My body wanted nothing more in that moment than to be wrapped in his arms, to be touched by him.

"Lyra, you made it," my boss yells from the cellar behind the bar, barely audible through the glass. This place is a little higher end than a usual bar, quiet, with tasteful music and a locked wine cellar around back to keep the more expensive bottles in their optimal environment. He pokes his head out, his outstretched hand holding two bottles for me to grab.

I smile back, popping them on the dark timber bar for him. As far as bosses go, he isn't too bad. If anyone gets too rowdy or treats his staff with anything other than respect, they are thrown out, most with a permanent ban.

"Yeah, sorry about not calling back. I've had a lot going on."

Understatement of the year. There isn't really a way to say to someone that you watched a giant smoked-out wolf slaughter men in front of you before it chased you, choking you out in the woods, before you woke up in a strange cabin housing your estranged stepbrother.

"Not a problem at all. We're pretty quiet tonight, not many bookings outside the regulars. One group of six is coming in later, but if they give you any grief, just let one of us know. My regular is here tonight as well, so please don't approach. He appreciates his anonymity as you know."

Nodding, I get to work cleaning up from earlier in the day. The bar is open from lunchtime onwards, and although it's not usually busy before the late afternoon, I need something to worry over. The man sitting in the darkest corner of the bar has his hood drawn low; a dark energy always clings to him when he is here. It's not every shift, but most.

The night passes with very few hiccups, maybe ten words passing from my lips. It's one of the things I enjoy about working here, outside of the decent paycheck that comes my way every week and the ludicrous tips. People who come in here know what they want, and it's not to talk to me. Unless they are asking for a recommendation, I am barely spoken to by patrons. It fills my cup enough, my social battery usually spent by the end of the night , but it doesn't wear me down in the way a lot of jobs likely would.

The table of six strolls in an hour before close, all dressed in extremely expensive suits. I show them to their table, choked by the intense waft of cologne. They seem to have already had a few drinks, talking loudly amongst themselves. It has them receiving annoyed looks from around the place, a disruption of the peace.

"Here is the wine list and the cocktail menu. Last call is at twelve, and I'll come back in five for your order."

One of them looks up at me, his blue eyes bloodshot around the whites. He sports a cocky grin, with dimples on each of his cheeks. He's likely a conventionally attractive man to most, with a square jawline and megawatt smile.

"Baby, you can come back as much as you like. You look just as good walking away as you do standing so close."