My Second Chance Mate is a Barbarian (Sera and Fenris) novel Chapter 110

Lyra

"You can exhale, Lyra."

The voice came straight through the wood, inches from my face.

It wasn't a shout. It was entirely conversational. My father sounded like he was asking a servant to pour him another cup of tea.

My back hit the freezing stone of the servant’s corridor. The pitch-black air smelled of dry rot and old mortar. Nadia pressed herself flat against my side. Her hands gripped my shirt so hard I felt her fingernails bite into my ribs. She was shaking. Her entire body vibrated against mine like a plucked string.

I didn't move. I kept my mouth clamped shut. My lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. I held the heavy crystal liquor bottle tight against my stomach.

He doesn't know, I told myself. The panic made my thoughts erratic, frantic. He’s guessing. The panel is closed. He didn't see us. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was lying to myself. We were wolves.

"If you hold your breath any longer, you are going to pass out against the masonry," my father's voice drifted through the narrow gaps in the bookshelf. "And I refuse to drag you out of the walls myself. Open the panel."

I opened my mouth and sucked in a ragged, silent breath. The air tasted stale. I swallowed hard, trying to push down the sour, burning taste of the eastern liquor backing up in my throat. The buzz was completely gone. The alcohol crash left me feeling hollow and deeply nauseous.

Through the thin wood, I heard the heavy thud of leather boots walking across the woven rug. He didn't rush.

I heard the scrape of heavy parchment. He was touching the massive Valdris map on the desk. He was touching the exact spot where my bare ass had just been.

Between my thighs, the slick wetness from Nadia’s mouth was starting to dry against my skin, turning cold and sticky against the hastily pulled-up fabric of my trousers. The seam of my pants was digging into my crotch. I had pulled them on twisted. I felt filthy. I felt entirely exposed, even in the pitch black.

The boots moved around the desk.

A sharp, metallic clack echoed through the wood.

He pushed the iron playback lever on the brass communication box. He knew we triggered it.

Nadia let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper. It was barely a squeak, but in the confined stone tunnel, it sounded deafening.

I dropped my free hand and clamped it hard over her mouth. I pressed her head back against the stone, holding her still.

"I can hear her crying, Lyra," my father said. He was standing directly in front of the bookshelf now. Only a row of dusty leather spines separated us. "The scribe's daughter. Nadia. Her pulse is erratic. And you smell like cheap sex, stale sweat, and my imported liquor."

My stomach bottomed out. He wasn't guessing. He knew exactly who was standing here.

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