Chapter 6
Lyra's POV
I was about to put away the forms when my phone rang—an unknown number flashing across the screen.
When I answered, I heard a voice I never thought I'd hear again: Rowan, my friend from the Silver Moon territory.
"Lyra? Is it really you?" Her voice carried that same breathless excitement from when we used to race through the industrial district together. "I heard you're coming home! I can't believe it. Do you know how much I've missed you? Why didn't you ever contact me?"
The question held five years of hurt, and perhaps I deserved every bit of it. When I'd fled five years ago, I'd changed my number, deleted my accounts, and vanished from Rowan's world without so much as a goodbye. Yet here she was, calling as if no time had passed, as if I'd never abandoned our friendship.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "I couldn't risk anyone knowing where I was. My father would..." I stopped, unwilling to explain the mess of that arranged marriage. "I'm really sorry, Rowan. I missed you too."
"Well, I'll forgive you if you promise to come racing with me," she said, and I could feel her smile through the phone. "There's a record race tomorrow night. I want to see if you've gotten rusty."
The invitation sent a shiver through me—anticipation mixed with genuine excitement.
Record races were underground motorcycle competitions with a points system where riders accumulated scores throughout the season, and whoever had the highest points at season's end was crowned Ton Up King. "I don't know if I can still..." I started, but before I could finish, I knew I would say yes, because I needed this like I needed air.
For three years, I'd lived quietly and obediently, denying every part of myself that Kael didn't approve of.
And suddenly, I could be myself again—the real Lyra Everthorn, not Kael's disappointing mate.
"Come on," Rowan urged. "The race is at Monarch's, that ridiculously expensive place your father used to take us to discuss important business. The whole club will be there. They'll be so happy to see you again. Plus, I need someone to make me look good in front of the new members."
Her tone was mock-arrogant, but I could hear the barely concealed hope beneath it.
"Alright," I said, forming something close to a smile for the first time in days. "I'll be there."
---
The next night, Kael still hadn't returned, but that suited me just fine.
I rode my bike, taking surface streets instead of the highway, feeling the engine vibrate between my legs once more. As I pulled into Monarch's parking lot, I was grinning inside my helmet.
The café was exactly as I remembered—Art Deco brass and geometric glass, the kind of place where a single cup of coffee cost more than most people's meals. I watched it glow in the night, motorcycles lined up outside, and my chest ached with nostalgia mixed with an excitement I couldn't quite put into words.
The club members had already gathered. I recognized most of the faces from my Silver Moon days, and when they saw me, they erupted in cheers, pulling me into hugs, slapping my back, asking where the hell I'd been.
In that moment, I forgot about Kael, forgot about Mira, forgot about everything waiting for me in that cold apartment.
There were also some new faces—younger riders who looked at me with skeptical eyes, clearly wondering who this stranger was and why everyone was making such a fuss. I saw them exchange glances, sizing up my bike and gear, apparently deciding I wasn't quite up to par.
A competitive edge I'd thought long dormant suddenly rose in my throat.
"Who's this?" asked a kid around twenty, riding a brand-new Kawasaki still sporting dealer plates.
"Lyra Everthorn," Rowan said, slinging an arm around my shoulders with pride in her voice. "Former club champion, the only person who's ever beaten my lap time on the dock circuit. Her speed is something you can't even imagine."
Her words sent a warmth spreading through me that I hadn't felt once in three years at Red Fang—a feeling of belonging. Here, I wasn't the disappointing mate who couldn't bear children, wasn't the outsider who didn't fit in.
The race format was simple: drop a quarter in the jukebox, and when the music started, you went. First one to complete the circuit and return won. I fed in my twenty-five cents and selected a song I'd raced to a hundred times before. When the opening chords thundered from the outdoor speakers, I released the clutch and felt the bike surge forward, as if it too had been waiting three years for this moment.
The city blurred before me.
I wove through streets, leaning so low into turns that my knees nearly scraped the pavement, muscle memory guiding me through late-night traffic. Wind tore at my jacket, my hair whipping inside the helmet.
For the first time since discovering Kael's affair with Mira, I felt something other than anger, grief, and cold hatred.
Freedom.
When I pulled back into Monarch's parking lot, I'd only been beaten by one rider on a Ducati Panigale—someone who'd clearly been racing professionally for years. The old club members still swarmed me, cheering congratulations as if I'd already won. Even the initially skeptical strangers nodded with respect.
"Not bad for someone who hasn't raced in three years," Rowan said, pulling off her helmet and shaking out her hair as she threw an arm around my shoulders. "At least you still remember how to play."
The next second, her expression changed, excitement overflowing as she pointed toward the café's corner window. "Oh my god! Lyra, is that Orion Blackwood? What's he doing here? I swear he's looking this way."
The name made me freeze, and I turned instinctively.
My gaze traveled through the glass, past the dim lighting and blurred figures, then stopped at the corner of the café.
I locked eyes with someone.
Eyes I'd only seen long ago, yet never forgotten—when I was small, standing behind solemn rows of pack members, looking up with something close to reverence, catching a distant glimpse of him.
But now, those eyes were looking at me. Across the glass, across thirty feet of night and air, his gaze fell on me, direct and unwavering.