KISS OF CHAOS....
595 Words
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The kiss was supposed to be quick, a stolen moment in the middle of chaos, but the instant Lyra’s lips pressed against Elvis’s, the world seemed to stop breathing. His hand tightened around her waist as if he had been waiting for this all along, as if her mouth had been carved only for his. Heat burned between them, reckless and unstoppable, and for a heartbeat it was just the two of them—no enemies, no shadows, no past.
But then, like the snap of broken glass, reality crashed back in. Shouts echoed from the dark corners of the street, boots pounding against the pavement. Elvis pulled back slightly, his breath still grazing her lips, his eyes wild with both hunger and alarm. He cursed under his breath, already drawing his gun.
“Stay behind me,” he growled, his voice sharp, commanding—protective in a way that made her chest ache. To him, she was still that fragile angel, the girl with broken eyes who needed shielding from the storm.
But Lyra’s gaze shifted past him. The men approaching weren’t Heather’s. The weight in the air, the ruthless precision of their formation—she recognized it instantly. Only one name carried this kind of darkness.
Peter.
Her pulse thundered, her mind whispering the name like a curse she thought she’d buried. Peter Pak. The monster in the shadows, far worse than Heather could ever dream of being. And these weren’t men sent for Elvis. They were sent for her.
Everyone else—the elders watching from the safety of their cars, the allies frozen in confusion—they all thought Heather was pulling the strings. Only Lyra knew the truth. Only she felt the suffocating chill of Peter’s presence behind these masked faces.
Elvis lifted his arm, motioning for her to step back. “Lyra. Angel. Listen to me. Behind me. Now.”
His voice trembled on the edge of desperation. He thought he could protect her. He thought this was about him. He thought she was the delicate part of his world.
And then the first shot cracked through the night.
Without hesitation, Lyra moved—not backward, but forward. Her gun slid into her hand so swiftly it was as if it had been born there, an extension of her very bones. Before Elvis could even process what happened, three men dropped to the ground, blood pooling beneath their chests. The shots were fired in a blur, so fast they split the air like lightning.
Silence fell.
Every head turned toward her. The elders in the cars went wide-eyed. Even the enemies hesitated, caught between fear and disbelief.
And Elvis—Elvis froze.
His mouth parted slightly, his breath trapped in his throat. He had seen death before. He had dealt death with his own hands. But what he just witnessed wasn’t ordinary. It wasn’t skill. It was something otherworldly. Lyra had moved like a phantom, a legend in flesh.
She wasn’t his fragile angel. She was a GOAT. A monster dressed in silence. A queen who carried destruction in her veins.
The street seemed to bow to her, even as more men poured in. And still, she stood there, steady, untouchable.
Elvis’s chest tightened, a rush of heat surging through him so violently he almost forgot to breathe. His angel had just shattered the image he built of her, and what stood in front of him now was both terrifying and irresistible.
He whispered her name, but it came out broken, hushed, almost reverent.
“Lyra…”
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- Writer
