Moonbound to the Billionaire Beast

The last thing Lyra Moon expected on a Wednesday morning was to be tackled into a rosebush by a six-foot-two man with blood on his collar and murder in his eyes. She had just stepped out of Moonbeans Café, juggling a paper cup of black coffee and a blueberry muffin, when the stranger collided with her like a heat-seeking missile. The world flipped—sky, thorns, hot breath—and then landed her flat on her back, pinned beneath a man who smelled like blood, leather, and something dangerously wild. “Don’t move,” he growled. His voice was low, commanding—and British, because of course the homicidal maniac had to be posh. “You just flattened me into a shrub,” she hissed, gasping. “I think we’re past polite requests.” His golden eyes locked onto hers. Not hazel. Not brown. Gold. And then he sniffed her. Sniffed. Her. She blinked. “Are you smelling me? What the actual—” “You’re not one of them,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Thank the moon.” He pulled back just enough for her to get a full view of his face—strong jawline, smudged with dried blood, high cheekbones, and the kind of mouth that looked like it had whispered sins into dark rooms. Lyra wasn’t usually one to notice mouths. But his? That was a mouth that said, I can make you forget your name. He stood up quickly and extended a hand to help her, his posture wary, as though expecting her to bolt or bite. Lyra accepted his hand, only because she was too stunned not to. The moment they touched, her skin tingled—like a current of heat zipped up her arm and curled into her stomach. Oh no. Nope. Absolutely not. The last thing she needed was butterflies for a lunatic. “What is wrong with you?” she asked, brushing leaves and a single crushed blueberry from her skirt. “Do you make a habit of body-slamming women outside cafés?” He didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes darted to the alley behind them. “They’re coming,” he said. “Who?” “You need to come with me. Now.” She folded her arms. “Hard pass. I don’t go anywhere with bloodstained strangers who sniff me and give cryptic warnings like we’re in a B-grade vampire movie.” He stepped closer, the heat of his body warming the air between them. Lyra could smell him now—not just the blood and leather, but something earthy and intoxicating. Pine needles. Smoke. And... rain? “This isn’t a joke,” he said, voice lower now, almost gentle. “They’ll hurt you to get to me.” That sparked something protective in her. Not for herself—Lyra had grown up fending off debt collectors and her mother’s bad choices—but for people being hunted. Even if they were British weirdos with sinful mouths. He grabbed her hand and started running. She didn’t have time to argue. Behind them, footsteps pounded, voices shouting in a language she didn’t recognize. They darted down alleys, cutting through the morning bustle of the city like shadows in motion. Lyra kept up, barely, breath catching in her throat. Finally, he pulled her into an underground garage and ducked behind a black SUV. He turned to her. “I’m Rhys. Rhys Alden.” “You have a last name?” she gasped. “That’s progress.” Rhys gave her a lopsided smile. “I’m... sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I couldn’t risk them finding me through scent.” “Scent,” she echoed. “What are you, a perfume bottle?” His expression shifted. Serious. Dark. “I’m a werewolf.” She stared. And then, to her own horror, she laughed. “Oh my god, you actually went there. You think you’re a werewolf? What is this, Twilight meets The Bourne Identity?” Rhys didn’t laugh. He simply unbuttoned the top of his bloodstained shirt and tilted his head, exposing a fresh bullet wound still half-healed, skin knitting itself together before her eyes. Lyra’s breath caught. “What the...” “I was attacked an hour ago. Silver bullets,” he said. “Hurts like hell. But I heal fast.” Lyra suddenly felt very, very cold. “And you dragged me into this because...?” “Because you smelled different,” he said, stepping closer. “Not just human. Something else. And because I couldn’t risk hurting anyone else.” “You tackled me into a rosebush,” she reminded him. He smiled again, and damn it, it reached his eyes this time. “Yeah. Not my finest hour.” Silence stretched between them, thick with confusion, adrenaline... and something else. Lyra was acutely aware of how close he stood, how his eyes roamed over her face like he was trying to memorize it. She hated how it made her stomach flip. “You’re not safe anymore,” he said. “If they saw me with you—” “You mean the mafia-scent-sniffing werewolf assassins or whatever?” He blinked. “Something like that.” “Perfect.” She rubbed her temples. “I was supposed to have a normal day. Coffee, muffins, maybe a nap. Not... this.” Rhys looked down at her muffin, still miraculously intact. “You held onto that the whole time?” “It was limited edition,” she deadpanned. He chuckled. “You’re something else.” “No kidding.” His expression softened, and something in his eyes made her pulse skip. “I’m sorry, Lyra. I know I dragged you into this. But I promise, I’ll keep you safe. Even if it costs me everything.” There it was. The emotional pull. The heavy promise. And damn if it didn’t hit her square in the chest. She didn’t know him. Not really. But something about Rhys—the pain in his voice, the way he said her name like it mattered—made her want to believe him. And that scared her more than any mafia wolf ever could. --- They took shelter in a penthouse. His penthouse. Of course Rhys Alden wasn’t just a British werewolf on the run. He was also, as it turned out, a billionaire CEO of Alden Enterprises. She only figured it out when she spotted a Forbes cover on the hallway wall with his annoyingly gorgeous face and the headline: The Wolf of Wall Street: Meet Rhys Alden, the Empire-Building Enigma. “Subtle,” she muttered. He brought her tea. Not just any tea—jasmine silver needle, served in fine porcelain. She sat on the velvet couch, mug cradled in her hands, trying not to feel too impressed by the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view of the skyline. “You okay?” Rhys asked, sitting across from her, watching her like she might disappear. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I feel like I fell into a fever dream. One minute, I’m running a social media page for dog shelters, and the next, I’m being hunted by... what exactly?” He hesitated. “My pack. Or what used to be. They turned... violent. Greedy. Someone’s been turning humans for profit. Selling blood. It’s a mess.” Lyra shivered. “So this is like... werewolf mafia?” “Essentially.” “And you? You’re the runaway prince or something?” His mouth tilted into a smile. “I left the pack. I refused to be part of what they were becoming.” She stared at him. “So you’re a billionaire runaway prince werewolf. And I’m just... me.” “No,” he said, his voice husky. “You’re the first good thing that’s happened to me in years.” Her heart skipped. She looked away. “You don’t even know me.” “I know how you didn’t scream. I know how you kept running. I know you still held onto your muffin, which is honestly impressive. And I know your scent calms me more than anything has in a long time.” Lyra swallowed. “You make it sound like I’m a drug.” He leaned closer. “No. You’re an anchor. And I think... I think fate brought me to you.” Her breath caught. There was a heat in his eyes that was unmistakable. She should’ve said no. She should’ve told him he was insane and walked out the door. But instead, she whispered, “Then what happens next?” His eyes dropped to her lips. “I protect you. And you figure out if you can trust me.” “And if I do?” “Then I’ll show you a world you never imagined. And maybe...” He paused, voice raw. “Maybe I’ll get to believe in something again.” The tension between them crackled like a live wire. Lyra’s fingers tightened around her mug. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, staring into golden eyes and a broken heart wrapped in billions and blood, she knew one thing: Her life was no longer ordinary. And neither was she.