16
LYRA
Itold myself I came back for the money.
That the reason I slipped on these black scrubs tonight and showed up at the warehouse like it was just another job was because I needed the cash. Not because of the man with the inked skin and green eyes. Not because of the kiss that still burns the corners of my lips.
But lies taste bitter when you chew on them long enough.
It's been six days since Declan showed up at my apartment, saw through me acting like an idiot, kissed me senseless, and then just walked away.
We didn't talk about it. Didn't even acknowledge it when I walked into the fight warehouse tonight and saw him across the ring. For both our reasons, we are just pretending nothing happened.
But my body knows better. Every nerve ends up wired every time I glance over at him. And I've glanced. Ten times, maybe more.
Declan's wearing a dark shirt. It stretches perfectly across his muscular chest. One of his fighters is up now, and he's shouting instructions, veins in his neck straining.
I look away, trying not to stare.
But my eyes betray me, sliding toward Declan. He's focused on the fight, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. The lights catch the sharp angle of his cheekbones, his mouth. I remember how his lips felt against mine, firm and demanding, and my stomach twists.
The bell rings and I try to distract myself. I stretch out my legs and sip from the water bottle I brought, eyes drifting over the crowd. It's a full house tonight.
I twist in my chair to crack my back and then I see him.
I freeze, my heart stuttering to a stop, and I look away.
A man stands against the far wall. At first, I think I'm mistaken. This venue is packed, and faces blur together. It could be anyone.
But when I glance back, I see his face clearly.
It's him.
The man from the grocery store.
I blink hard, hoping I'm wrong. But he's now staring at me and a slow smile crawls across his face.
I know that smile.
The room tilts sideways, and the floor beneath me seems to vanish. Suddenly I'm not here anymore. I'm back in one of the basement clinics where the Albanians kept me.
The girl on my table trembles, her body wracked. Her name is Tatiana. Nineteen. Russian. Brought in by the Albanians' trafficking ring six months ago.
"Please," she whispers in broken English. Her eyes dart to the door, then back to me. "You doctor. You help me."
I check her vitals, noting the bruises across her ribs, the finger marks on her throat. "I'm giving you something for the pain," I tell her, reaching for a syringe.
She grabs my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "No. Not pain." Her eyes are wild, desperate. "End. Please. Death."
My hand stills. "What?"
"Kill me," she begs, her voice cracking. "No more. I can't. No more."
I'm stunned. Shocked. In all the years of treating the girls, none have asked me this directly. But I've seen it in their eyes. The plea. The desperation.
I swallow hard. "I can't do that, Tatiana."
"Yes. You can." Tears stream down her face. "Medicine. Too much. Accident."
