kidnapped by the lycan

Chapter one

I spotted him across the smoky bar, and it was like a wave of heat washed over me. He was gorgeous, all lean muscle and broad shoulders. But it was more than just his looks. Something about him made my heart race.

He was my type: dark, messy hair, intriguing hazel eyes. He stood calmly at the end of the bar, a contrast to the crazy scene around him. Everyone else was a mess, with ridiculous amounts of eye makeup.

I'd been feeling awful all day, reeling from a recent rejection. I needed to get out, anywhere but my lonely apartment. This noisy, crowded bar was the perfect escape.

I'd met some people earlier who were already drunk and having a wild time. I'd joined them hoping to forget my troubles, and they brought me here, to this dark, out-of-the-way place.

My new "friends" disappeared as soon as we got inside, except for this one guy who was completely wasted. He stuck to me like glue, and his drunken rambling was really annoying. He kept leaving and coming back with more booze.

I'd grabbed some greasy food and a bottle of strong liquor to try and forget everything. But as the night went on, the loud music and the crowded bar started to get to me. I opened the bottle, hoping for some relief.

Just then, the drunk guy showed up again. "Wanna dance?" he slurred, his face a mess.

"No thanks," I said, my stomach turning. He was definitely not the guy I was hoping to meet.

I wanted to forget about Caspian, my ex, and his hurtful actions. This awful dance offer was the last thing I needed.

Mr. Clingy, bless his oblivious heart, grabbed my hand. His sweaty grip sent shivers down my spine, and the stench of cheap booze made me gag.

“Why not, beautiful?” he croaked, a burp escaping his lips like an unwelcome serenade.

“f**k off!” I yanked my hand free, my eyes scanning the room for something, anything, more appealing.

That’s when I saw him. Across the crowded hall, nestled in the shadows, was my type. He wasn’t flashy, just jeans and a dark shirt, blending into the background in a way that only amplified his allure.

Mr. Clingy finally lumbered off, his drunken jig drawing attention away from my relief. I gulped down half my wine, the fiery burn a welcome distraction.

I decided to wait. Let him settle in, get a drink, become just another face in the crowd. But after fifteen minutes of furtive glances and nervous sips, he remained drinkless. So, armed with my potent bottle and a shot of liquid courage, I sauntered over.

“Full bottle, wanna share?” I asked, surprised at my own audacity. “We can grab another glass from the bar.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by my brazen approach, but shrugged. Up close, he was even better. Thick, tousled hair, a shade of tanned skin that hinted at summer sun and good times.

His hazel eyes were gorgeous, framed by a strong jawline, and even in the shadows, they held a spark of mischief. And those lips… they were full and red and… distracting.

The dim light flattered him, casting a golden glow on his skin and adding a touch of ruggedness. I liked him. A lot.

“Actually, I don’t drink alcohol,” he said, his voice a disarming mix of smooth and friendly. “But thanks for the offer.”

My confidence faltered. The wine, meant to embolden me, now seemed to tie my tongue in knots. I managed a lopsided grin and perched on the stool beside him.

“It’s all I could snag,” I mumbled, taking another shaky gulp. My heart hammered in my chest, a drumbeat against the throbbing bass. Was I always this nervous around attractive guys?

My nerves were doing jumping jacks in my stomach. The wine might have given me the courage to approach him so boldly, but it was more than that. I was tired, bone-tired, of being courted by guys who weren’t even on my radar.

Done with playing the waiting game, done with settling for lukewarm smiles and forced conversations. I wanted the real deal, the spark that ignites, and I was determined to get it.

Caspian, my recent ex, had been the epitome of “not my type.” A month of relentless pursuit, and I’d caved, much to my immediate regret. He was all biceps and brawn, but lacked the charm of a paperclip.

My friends, bless their matchmaking hearts, had urged me to give him a chance. We went on dates, trying to force the romance like a square peg in a round hole. There was no zing, no electricity, just awkward silences and polite smiles.

But somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself I loved him. Maybe it was the comfort in his predictable routine, the good job, the fact he was always home before seven.

We dated, I guess. It was like drifting downstream on a wobbly raft, no real direction, just going with the flow. And I, fool that I was, clung to the oars, paddling like mad to keep it afloat.

I convinced myself this was how love worked, slow and steady, building a life brick by brick. I focused on his good job, the way his pecs bulged under his shirts, his neatly trimmed beard, and how he always made it home before the streetlights came on.

“Husband material,” they all said. And like a lovesick puppy, I lapped it up, molding him into my ideal partner in my head.

Blindly, I poured my heart into that relationship, crafting a future we’d never even discussed. I started to see him as my type, the missing piece to my perfect puzzle.

And somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I loved him. Not the real him, mind you, but the carefully curated version I’d built in my head.

His betrayal was a swift, brutal kick to the gut. I caught him cheating, the evidence undeniable, and his excuse?

“You weren’t committed enough.

” Committed? I’d built him a damn Taj Mahal of commitment, brick by painstaking brick! The audacity of it, the sheer, callous disregard for everything I’d poured into that sham of a relationship, left me reeling.

His engagement a week later felt like a cruel punchline. Heartbroken? Not quite. More like a slow, simmering burn of humiliation and anger. I couldn't stay in that apartment, not anymore.

My roommate’s snide remarks about my “local w***e” replacement were the final push. So I packed a bag, grabbed a bottle of wine, and stumbled out into the night.

I didn't know whose party it was, and I didn't care. I promised myself I’d hook up with any sexy guy I found and have a nice time. And here I was, chatting up a cute guy who was totally my type.

“My name is Lysandra,” I introduced myself, offering a fist bump, which he returned.

“I’m Michael,” he smiled.

“Pleasure to meet you, Michael.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied.