Chapter 62

Lyra pov

I tightened my grip on the cool, rough surface of the wall, my eyes locked onto Rebekah as Vincenzo's words hung in the air, thick with defiance. "Lyra in question is mine; your son is merely proving to be stubborn." The deep, rumbling laugh of Marcello's godfather resonated through the room—a sound I recognized but had never truly engaged with—and it sent a chill racing down my spine, like the sensation of ice water trickling through my veins.

Rebekah's gaze met mine, her eyes sparkling with mischief, betraying a sense of amusement that sparked a counterfire within me. I raised an eyebrow, challenging the unspoken tension between us as I pushed off the wall, the movement igniting a sense of purpose within me. I strode toward her with measured confidence, the sharp, rhythmic click of my heels against the polished floor reverberating through the dimly lit hallway, amplifying the intensity of the moment.

"Let's get out of here," I breathed, my voice a mere whisper yet laced with urgency, barely piercing the roar of my racing heart. I sensed the weight of Vincenzo's looming presence behind me, but I had no intention of letting his hollow declarations dictate my worth.

If he truly wanted to lay claim to me, he had to step forward and fight for it like a man, not stand there spouting possessive proclamations as though I was merely a trophy to be won.

Rebekah raised an eyebrow, her bright green eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and concern. "You really don’t want to hear what he has to say?" she inquired, her voice low and husky, almost a whisper meant only for me.

I shook my head emphatically, my ponytail swinging back and forth like a metronome. “No, I don’t. This isn’t some game, Rebekah. If Vincenzo wants me, he needs to prove it—show me he’s serious, not just playing with my heart.”

Rebekah’s expression softened, concern etching itself into her features as she reached out to grip my wrist gently, her touch urgent yet comforting. “Lyra, you’re not thinking clearly. You’re so utterly tangled in your feelings for Marcello that you’re losing sight of the bigger picture. Can’t you see what’s at stake?”

I attempted to pull away, but she held on tightly, unwavering. “Let go, Rebekah. I don’t want to hear it. I’ve made my choice.”

“Fight for your freedom, Lyra,” she urged, her voice rising in intensity, fierce and unwavering. “Don’t fall into these petty games with Marcello. You’re worth so much more than that; you know it deep down.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with truth, as I wrestled with the turmoil roiling inside me.

A surge of anger coursed through me, but it was swiftly overshadowed by a wave of frustration. I was tired of the mind games that had ensnared me in this tangled web, yet I felt trapped with no easy escape. “I’m done eavesdropping,” I declared, attempting to turn away and put distance between me and the escalating tension.

Before I could take a step, Rebekah’s grip on my arm tightened like a vice, yanking me back around to face her. I stumbled, caught off guard by her sudden movement, and before I could brace myself, her palm struck my cheek with a sharp crack. The sound echoed ominously through the dimly lit hallway, and I felt the sting not just on my skin but deep within, as tears began to pool at the corners of my eyes.

“You’re a fool,” she spat out, her eyes blazing like molten fire, raw anger radiating from her every word. “Do you even know who I am? Have you ever taken a moment to consider why I’m even bothering to help you?”

I stood there, paralyzed by shock, as tears spilled down my cheeks, betraying the tumult within. Words eluded me, so I simply shook my head, my throat tightening with an overwhelming mix of fear and confusion.

For a fleeting moment, Rebekah’s expression softened, and she reached out, her fingers gently grasping my chin to direct my gaze back to hers. “I don’t want you to end up like the other breeders,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a near whisper, imbued with sincerity. “I’m fighting for your freedom, Lyra. Please, don’t make this harder than it already is.”

A sob erupted from deep within my chest, nearly choking me as I flung myself at Rebekah, wrapping my arms around her waist with a desperate intensity. "I'm sorry," I murmured, my voice muffled against the softness of her shoulder, the rhythm of my heart quickening with every word. "I'm so sorry."

For a fleeting moment, she stood rigid, as though bracing against a rising tide. Then, like a dam breaking, her arms encircled me, holding me fiercely. "Don't apologize," she murmured back, her voice steady but thick with emotion. "Just be smart, Lyra. Fight for yourself."

We remained locked in that embrace, the air thick with unsaid words and forgotten fears, the tension between us gradually wearing away like a shadow at dusk. When we finally pulled apart, Rebekah’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, the redness around them a testament to her own struggles. "Let's get out of here," she urged, her voice husky yet determined. "We need to talk."

I nodded, my own eyes still brimming with tears that reflected the chaos of my emotions. As we stepped away from the oppressive atmosphere of the dark ballroom, a chill crept into my bones. A gnawing sense of impending change hung over me, and I couldn’t shake the weight of uncertainty—was I truly ready for what lay ahead?

Rebekah guided me into a small room that felt worlds away from the lavish chaos outside. It was dimly lit, the warm glow of a solitary lamp casting long shadows across the walls lined with books. The air carried the earthy scent of aged paper and polished wood, grounding me as I took in the sparse furnishings: an old leather armchair, a desk bedecked with a few scattered papers, and a small bookshelf crammed with well-loved volumes. She shut the door gently behind us, her back pressed against the cold wood, her gaze unwavering as it locked onto mine.

"What's going on with you and Marcello?" she asked, her tone probing yet sincere, a hint of concern lacing her words.