~Lyra~

Fuck.

I swear to every celestial body up there, I thought that was it.

The end.

The dramatic, gasping, slow-motion fall of Lyra, aged eighteen, freshly mated, still sore from getting ruined by the only man who’s ever made me forget my name—and about to be strangled to death on her own damn floor by a mascara-smeared banshee with abandonment issues.

Honestly? I thought I was going to die.

Not later. Not metaphorically. Not “oh my god, I’m dying” like when Damon’s tongue is inside me and my soul is slipping out through my moans—I mean real death. No more orgasms. No more eye-rolls. No more “yes, Daddy” whispered...