Lyra didn’t drop to her knees.
She didn’t scream.
If there was one thing life as a human servant in a wolf palace had taught her, it was that panic got you killed faster than a blade.
When the masked woman lunged, Lyra didn’t try to block the weapon.
She dove sideways, her hip slamming painfully against the sharp corner of the heavy wooden vanity.
The black matte blade sliced through the empty air where her chest had been a millisecond ago, cutting a clean rip through the velvet upholstery of the armchair behind her.
“Fast for a fragile thing,” the woman hissed, pivoting with terrifying speed.
Lyra scrambled to her feet, her eyes locking onto the heavy crystal water carafe sitting on the vanity.
She didn’t hesitate.
She grabbed the base of the bottle and hurled it directly at the assassin’s face.
The woman brought her forearm up to shield herself.
The crystal shattered against her leather guard, sending a shower of heavy glass fragments and water across the floor.
It didn’t injure her, but it did exactly what Lyra needed—it forced the assassin to blink and take a half-step back to clear her vision.
Lyra didn’t wait.
She bolted toward the heavy oak doors leading to the hallway.
She knew Jaxon had locked the internal mechanism from the inside, but there was a manual brass release lever near the bottom for emergencies.
She dropped to her knees, her fingers slipping on the smooth floor as she reached for the release.
A heavy, leather-booted foot slammed down onto her hand, pinning her fingers to the floor.
Lyra bit back a scream as the bones in her hand groaned under the pressure.
“You aren’t leaving this room alive, maid,” the assassin whispered, bending down and grabbing Lyra by the hair, forcing her head back.
The cold edge of the black blade pressed directly against the soft skin of Lyra’s throat.
The pressure was precise.
Just a fraction of an inch more, and she would end up exactly like Vance.
“Go on then,” Lyra choked out, staring up into the cold, gray eyes visible beneath the mask.
She forced her voice to stop trembling, injecting a cold venom into her words.
“Kill me.
Let’s see how long you survive when three alpha heirs realize you broke their bond.
They won’t just execution you.
They will tear your entire clan apart piece by piece.” The assassin’s hand twitched.
For a fraction of a second, hesitation flickered in her gray eyes.
The sheer weight of the triplet alphas’ reputation was enough to make even a professional killer pause.
That second was all Lyra needed.
Using her free hand, Lyra grabbed a sharp piece of the shattered crystal carafe from the floor beside her and drove it upward, burying it straight into the assassin’s thigh.
The woman let out a sharp, muffled yelp, her grip on Lyra’s hair loosening as she instinctively staggered backward.
The blade scraped across Lyra’s collarbone, drawing a thin line of heat and blood, but it missed the artery.
Before the assassin could recover, the heavy oak doors groaned.
The brass bolt didn’t just slide open—it shattered.
The door was thrown back against the wall with such raw, violent force that the hinges screamed.
Ryker stood in the doorway, his massive frame radiating an aura so suffocatingly dark that the air in the room instantly turned to ice.
His armor was smudged with soot, his face splitered with someone else’s blood from the council room, and his amber eyes were fully black with rage.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
The assassin didn’t even try to fight.
She turned, leaping toward the open balcony doors to throw herself over the cliff side, but Ryker moved like a blur of shadow and steel.
He caught her by the ankle mid-air, dragging her back into the room and slamming her spine against the marble floor with a sickening crack.
The woman went entirely limp.
Jaxon and Cassian stepped into the room right behind him, closing the broken door as much as possible.
Cassian immediately kicked the assassin’s fallen blade away, while Jaxon’s eyes scanned the room until they locked onto Lyra, who was still sitting on the floor, clutching her bleeding collarbone.
The moment Jaxon saw the red stain spreading across her servant’s tunic, his jaw clenched so hard a bone ticked.
The heavy, sweet scent of midnight frost and flora erupted into the room, thick and wild, responding to her injury.
“You’re bleeding,” Jaxon said, his voice dangerously low, walking over to her with long, unhurried strides that felt more threatening than Ryker’s rage.
“I’m fine,” Lyra managed, pushing herself up against the wall, refusing his hand as he reached down.
“Your security is terrible.” Cassian let out a dark, breathless laugh, though his eyes were completely lethal as he stared at the unconscious woman on the floor.
“She’s right, Jax.
The Council meeting was a distraction.
Someone knew we’d be trapped in the rotunda verifying the King’s death.” Ryker ripped the mask off the unconscious assassin, revealing the pale, sharp features of a highborn woman from the Northern Frost pack.
“Elowen’s people.
They’re already testing us.” Jaxon ignored them.
He knelt down in front of Lyra, his large, cold hands suddenly gripping her shoulders.
He didn’t ask for permission this time.
He pulled her tunic slightly to the side to inspect the shallow cut on her collarbone.
The moment his fingers brushed near the wound, the electric shock of the bond flared between them, sending a shudder straight through his broad shoulders.
He looked up, his face inches from hers, his expression dark and possessive.
“You fought back.” “I don’t intend to die in your bedroom, Prince Jaxon,” Lyra said coldly.
“Good,” Jaxon whispered, his grip tightening just enough to let her know she wasn’t going anywhere.
“Because from tonight, this room is the only place in this kingdom where you are allowed to breathe.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Deejarh_6075 Lyra isn’t a maid who sits around waiting to be saved!
Drop a comment if you loved her fighting back against that assassin.
The triplets are furious now, and things are about to get dangerous in the private wing.