Lyra didn't glance back. She was not dumb, that was obviously a trap, she got near him and suddenly there is someone behind her? No way! This guy wanted to catch her distracted. She kept her eyes locked on Ezra, her voice low and venomous. "I don't have friends." She didn't turn. Didn't flinch. "And I don't need you."
Ezra's jaw clenched and he looked Lyra dead in the eyes. "You're about to." Ezra hissed through gritted teeth. Who the hell does she think she is? A murderer? Immortal? He shook his head in disapproval. Maybe I should just let them do what they want…
The scent of cheap liquor drifted from the newcomers and boots scraped concrete behind Lyra, at last she noticed them. She cursed under her breath and turned around.
Lyra's spine snapped rigid. She refused to shrink, refused to give Ezra or the approaching men an inch. Her hand dove inside her jacket and ripped the switchblade free with a sharp flick, its blade catching the neon glow like ice. She curled her fingers tight around the worn handle, knuckles bone-white, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. The blade trembled faintly - not fear, she told herself, just adrenaline humming through her veins. "Back the fuck off," she snarled at the trio, her voice low and lethal, grey eyes cutting through the gloom like shards of broken glass.
The largest man chuckled. He chuckled?! No, he doesn't know what Lyra is capable of! She have been through hell and survived, she will not back off, not again.
A bald man with a scar along his cheek stepped closer, his breath reeked of stale beer and rotten teeth. "Feisty," he slurred. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't play with sharp toys." The other two laughed, circling like vultures, cutting off her escape routes. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
The second man, shorter but thicker with a spider tattoo climbing his neck, grinned. "Cute blade," he mocked, nodding at Lyra's switchblade. "You planning to scratch my arm with that, sweetheart? Or just tickle me?" His chuckle was wet and low. Lyra's face wrinkled in disgust. Scratch him? She'd shove it through his throat if he took another step. But the trio moved in sync, tightening the circle; the bald one was about to strike, he licks his lips slowly and grins looking at the blade.
How easy was it for him? He was a man, a big one, and he was hungry for her. That right there was not Lyra anymore, it was a piece of meat. And a delicious one. Doesn't Lyra know that his grip could snap her small wrist?! Ezra can't take this anymore, her courage is incredibly stupid.
Her chest tightened, pulse hammering in her ears. She willed her expression to stay cold, sharp, merciless. But the men weren't flinching. They weren't even hesitating. The blade that had made others back down before now looked like a toy in her hand, Lyra swallows hard but she is not stepping back now.
Lyra braced herself as the bald man finally lunged - then froze mid-step. His grin vanished, replaced by raw panic. The tattooed man choked on his laughter, stumbling backward. Not because of her blade. Not because of her glare. The alley went unnaturally still into a suffocating silence.
Behind her, Ezra straightened with lethal grace, unfolding from his casual, he moved with quiet precision, like a predator uncurling after a nap. His green eyes weren't mocking anymore - they were deadly pits. But the men weren't looking at his eyes, they were looking down where Ezra lifted his black loose shirt and revealed the glint of a gun tucked at his waistband, the barrel pointing dangerously low in front of him. The gun drained every drop of colour from the thugs' faces.
For a moment, Lyra thought that they might have finally snapped out of their drunkenness and realized that she could actually stab them.
The bald man raised his hands slowly, palms out. "Easy, boss," he stammered, taking a cautious step back. The others mimicked him, eyes glued to the gun Ezra hadn't drawn. The spider-tattooed guy muttered something incoherent about misunderstanding. The tension shifted entirely onto Ezra.
Lyra's eyes darted between Ezra, his gun, his abs and the retreating thugs. A flicker of relief warred violently with humiliation - she'd been seconds from being overwhelmed, her defiance useless against their brute force, and he had stopped it with a mere flick of his shirt. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. "I had it," she lied, the words scraping raw against her throat, her grey eyes blazing with wounded pride as they finally met Ezra's cold, unreadable gaze.
Once the three drunk men were out of sight Ezra arched a brow. The deadly focus in his eyes softened back into mocking green, though the edge of it remained. He let go of his grip on his own shirt to hide back the gun and tilted his head, studying her like she was some reckless child. "You think those assholes were scared of your little pocket knife?"
"I can handle myself." Lyra cuts shorts and starts walking away, feeling humiliated. Her blade closing inside her jacket again.
Ezra stepped forward, closing her exit once again. His voice dropped, rough and cutting. "No, you can't." His eyes swept her trembling hand. "You looked like a chihuahua," he sneered, "shaking your legs and almost pissing yourself." His laugh was harsh and infuriating. "You think anyone out here respects a girl waving a blade like she knows how to use it?"
Her cheeks flamed, fury clawing at her chest. "Don't you dare talk down to me!"
"I'm not talking down," Ezra said, cocky and dangerous. "I'm telling you what I saw. What they saw. A little girl playing tough. You walk these alleys like you own them but you're just bait. You're lucky I was here!" Ezra puff his chest with pride. She should be impressed, right? He was her hero and now she'd fall in love with him. Ezra smirk widens as he thinks of all the ways he could break her heart.
"Go to hell!" Lyra's pulse spiked with rage. She turned sharply, boots striking the pavement as she headed for the alley's exit.
Ouch! Ezra's thoughts of breaking Lyra's heart were shattered right there… Were they? Nah, not yet. Ezra narrows his eyes looking under his shoulder to Lyra's retreating figure. He's gonna make her fall on her knees for him… Figuratively and literally. Ezra smirks darkly, his pupils dilating again as her hips sway away. Oh – she's going away!
Ezra cursed under his breath and paced after her, his long strides closing the distance in seconds. He grabbed her arm, not rough but firm, forcing her to stop. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, his voice low and urgent. "Those guys might circle back. Or worse, find friends. Let me drive you. My car's right here." He nodded toward the battered sedan, its hood still warm from his earlier lean. "Or are you too proud to admit you need help?"
Lyra arched her eyebrow.
Lyra wrenched her arm free, but she knows that she only got herself free because he allowed to let go. He was much bigger than her. Her grey eyes flickered from his face to the dented sedan, rust eating its edges and one headlight cracked like a dead eye. Looks like it lost a fight with a dumpster -she thought, lip curling. But the memory of those thugs' hungry stares flashed. She swallowed her mockery. "Drive me? In that?" She gestured dismissively, chin high, but her voice lacked its usual venom. "I'd rather walk."
Ezra's smirk vanished instantly, replaced by something raw and unexpected - a flicker of genuine hurt. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "Worked two damn years for that piece of shit," he muttered under his breath.
Lyra turns to walk away, smirking victoriously.
"Fine," he drawled, the word sharp as broken glass. "Let's walk then." He didn't wait for agreement, just started walking on the same path as Lyra. She stopped almost instantly. He can't be serious…