Chapter 2 Lyra's POV

If I thought the way he looked at me in that hallway was dangerous... it was nothing compared to the way he looks at me now, under the dim lights of the bar like he already knows exactly how tight my thigh would clutch around his fingers if he ever slid them into me.

The heat floods back with such cruelty, I didn't expect my body to tighten at the memory of how he held me open with one hand while he rammed into me with the other.

My breath stutters at the memory, heat curling low in my stomach: This is utterly wrong, utterly forbidden. And here I am, trapped behind the bar at my mate's wedding, pretending I'm fine, pretending my skin isn't still buzzing for a man I shouldn't even want. A man whose name I still didn't know when he made me shake apart beneath him. The memory vanishes just as fast, leaving my pulse tripping over itself.

*******

"What?" I whisper, the weight of his words crashing into me.

"The bar," he mutters,

nudging at the door behind me. "You are in my way."

Of course. The damn bar.

I slide away from the door, but the stranger doesn't move. There is something about him that makes me narrow my eyes, peering at him from underneath my lashes.

His eyes take in the blood in my hands, slowly drying. His stare lingers too long, on my lips, my throat, the pulse jumping in my wrist as if he's memorizing the places he wants to touch later. My breath slips unevenly, and his eyes flick down at the sound, sharp and hungry. Wordlessly, he gets on the same level as me and pulls it to him. At first, I struggle in his grip, trying to flinch away from his touch.

But one look straight into my eyes has me stopping. Slowly, his fingers work at the remaining shards of glass in my hand, taking every bit out. I look into his eyes as he works so intently, the dark pools focused on his task. His fingers barely graze my palm, but the jolt that shoots up my arm is vicious; white-hot, electric, a warning I'm too broken to obey. His jaw flexes once, as if he felt it too.

I don't think I have ever seen him around. I would have noticed. This man doesn't blend into crowds easily, with his silver hair framing his face, and the contrast with his eyes is hard to miss.

Like darkness and light.

He retrieves a bottle of alcohol from his coat and pours it over the injury.

"Fuck!" I groan as the pain hits. He arches his brows but says nothing else, carefully sheathing his drink before rising to his feet again.

He watches me shake instead, eyes darkening with something that feels too much like possession. "Pain teaches you where you bleed," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. "And who notices."

I gaze up at him, confused.

He shrugs. "I am not particularly a fan of the drinks being served out here. The Alpha's son could have done better."

"Why are you helping

me?" I whisper, pulling myself off the ground. The wound has begun to heal, although still slower than the normal rate of other wolves.

"I'm not," he murmurs.

"You were just in my way."

We walk back in

together, and I notice we are heading the same way. He slides onto one of the stools at the bar, while I grab a tray.

"Sit," he orders. The command isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. My knees go weak before my mind catches up, heat flooding embarrassingly low in my thigh. Alphas don't usually affect me like this. No one does actually.

I blink rapidly. "What?"

His eyes, dark and unreadable, pin me in place. "I said sit. I'm sure someone else can play servant tonight."

I should argue. I should walk away before I get into trouble.

But for some reason, I can't find the willpower to say no, so, instead, I slide onto the stool, staring at that pool of dark eyes again. His hands work mechanically as he retrieves the alcohol in his coat again, pulling two glasses our way.

After pouring a healthy amount, he pushes one to me. The smell burns before it even touches my lips. He studies every movement I make. Every swallow, every breath like he's stripping me without touching me. The worst part? My thigh throbs like it's begging for his hands in me instead of his eyes.

"Drink up."

"Are you trying to make me drunk?"

He shrugs. "You don't need my help for that. You already look half–drowned in exhaustion and mystery."

Heat creeps up my face as I turn away, my gaze landing on Aiden. "I guess I am not a fan of parties where I can't enjoy myself."

"Me neither," he murmurs, his firm hands circling his glass as he raises it to his lips. "I'm here out of obligation."

"At least, you are not made to serve tables like some slave."

He smirks. "I'm far from being a slave, Lyra."

Perfect. He knows my name. What else does he know?

I should go help the others out with serving drinks till the end of the wedding, as Aiden has instructed. Yet, for some reason, I slide further into the stool, taking my first sip of the drink.

It burns my throat instantly, and I wheeze. But I keep going back for more, under his watchful gaze.

The stranger.

He isn't saying anything. Just watching, as if trying to unravel a mystery.

The liquor becomes dull on my tongue as I keep going. It gives me something else to focus on other than Selene's sharp laughter, finding me from across the room. It is easy to point her out, standing as regal as ever.

She is now beside her mother and father, the Beta of the book. Happiness flows through them. In the near future, their daughter is going to be a Luna.

While I will remain the same.

Nothing.

"Careful," he says, his lips barely moving.

A scowl etches onto my face. "Why do you care?"

"I don't." His lips twitch, but it doesn't stretch into a smile. "I just prefer not to drink with someone who collapses halfway through. And alcohol poisoning is a thing.

Haven't you heard of it?"

"You're bossy."

"I've been told worse."

He leans back against the counter, his silver strands catching the dim lights.

I can't read his gaze, no matter how hard I try. And right now, his dark eyes are beginning to twirl.

Or is that the drink?

He leans in closer to me, his warm breath teasing my ears... just enough heat to burn along my skin. My thighs

clench instinctively. He pauses just a fraction too long as if he hears the sound my body makes.

"You have been staring at the bride for a while now. You should say hello while you can."

The rest of the room seem to fade away, leaving just the two of us. Every part of me is aware of the stranger as he lingers on my ear, his lips grazing my skin softly before he pulls away.

"I should leave," I mutter, sliding out of the stool and heading towards the door blindly. Halfway through, I remember the warriors won't let me out. Not after Aiden warned them to keep her inside the building until I watch every minute of the wedding.

I hate him. I should hate him.

The stranger from earlier approaches, taking my hand in his. He doesn't ask permission. His hand closes around mine, large, warm, unyielding. A single tug and my body follows his like it

always belonged in his pull. The warriors bow their heads as we approach, spines stiffening under his aura.

And without warning, he strides out of the door. The warriors do not as much as blink at him, keeping their gazes to the ground until we walk past them.

"Who are you?" I mutter the words I should have asked an hour ago.

"Where should I drop you?"

I stop then, realizing that I cannot go back to the pack house. Selene is going to move in tonight,

and I do not think I can bear to see them all cuddly, the look of smug satisfaction on her face.

In a split second, I look up at the stranger, saying the first thing that comes to my mind.

"Take me home with you."

For a breathless moment, something passes between us-dark, magnetic, terrifying. The air hums. The medallion beneath his shirt sparks to life, a faint green flash against his chest, answering something inside me that aches to be touched.

He doesn't notice it, but I do.

And suddenly, I am filled with the strange belief that it belongs to me.

"Get in the car, Lyra," he says softly. "Before I do something I'm not supposed to."

Something in me tightens, trembling.

And I obey, because gods help me, I want him to.