Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 100

Lyra

I tilted my head, blinking like I was trying to make sense of the disgusting image playing behind my eyelids.

"He told people you were easy," I said, enunciating each word with the precision of a girl who had been quiet for too damn long but of course I was lying. I just wanted to make her feel terrible

"He also said that he didn’t even try — you just opened your legs like a gift bag at a party he didn’t even RSVP to."

Her mouth opened, probably to lie, but I cut her off without mercy.

"He told people that fucking you felt like a formality. Like checking a box. Like he was doing you a favor. Did you know that, Tasha? Did you know he said you were a mercy nut? That he only did it because you were there? That it was fast, forgettable, and made him miss me more?"

Tasha’s hand flew to her chest like I’d just physically slapped her. Her eyes filled with tears, and for a second — one small, petty second — I almost felt bad.

But then I remembered the girl I was when it happened.

I remembered the nights I curled up in bed with a pillow between my thighs, wondering if there was something wrong with me because I didn’t want to have sex yet.

I remembered crying in a bathroom stall while she texted me from the next hallway saying you’re strong when she had already let him inside her. I remembered blaming myself. And then I didn’t feel bad anymore.

"I swear it was just once," she whispered, finally, like that changed anything. "Lyra, it was a mistake. It wasn’t even good. I didn’t even finish. I regretted it the moment it happened. He was fast and sloppy and smelled like sweat and weed and cheap regrets."

I let out a dry laugh, the kind that wasn’t funny but still came out because if I didn’t laugh, I was going to scream so loud I’d set off a car alarm.

"Oh, so now you want to insult the quality of the betrayal? Like that’s supposed to make me feel better? Like, what? You didn’t cum, so that makes the betrayal easier to swallow? Oh no, Tasha. It doesn’t. Not even close."

I turned my head slowly to Marcus, who was standing there with that same arrogant little tilt to his mouth. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pretend to look sorry. He looked smug. Like he was enjoying the attention. Like he thought this was still about him.

And that’s when I knew. I knew I wasn’t going to walk away quietly. I wasn’t going to storm out and cry in a bathroom again. I wasn’t going to let this be another memory that haunted me in silence.

I was going to humiliate him. In front of everyone. In front of God. In front of every single person who ever looked at me and thought I was weak.

Without hesitation, I stepped forward. My heels clacked against the floor like they were sounding a warning. My dress — the black one that barely covered my heartbreak — swished against my thighs. My heart pounded in my ears like a war drum, but I didn’t stop.

I walked right up to him, close enough to smell his cologne, that sickening mix of overconfidence and Axe body spray.

"You think you won?" I said, my voice shaking now not from fear but from the weight of everything I’d held inside for two years. "

You think just because I didn’t give you my virginity, I lost? You think just because she was willing to get on her knees, that makes you a man? You’re not a man, Marcus. You’re a toddler with a hard-on and a superiority complex."

He rolled his eyes.

So I acted.

Before anyone could stop me, I kicked him. Not a tap. Not a gentle nudge. I kicked him directly in the balls with the kind of force you only build from heartbreak, betrayal, and every insult you swallowed because you were afraid of looking dramatic.

He folded like a damn lawn chair. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His knees buckled, his hands shot to his crotch, and for a glorious, glorious moment, I felt divine.

But I wasn’t done.

Because somewhere deep in my chest — beneath the pain and the panic and the pounding adrenaline — a darker voice whispered, "Go further."

So I grabbed the waistband of his jeans.

And I yanked them up.

Hard.

Like hard hard. Like middle-school-bully-on-a-mission level wedgie.

His boxers — plain white, faded, and definitely not sexy — vanished up his ass so violently I think he saw stars. He shrieked. Shrieked. Like a dying animal.

People were screaming now. Not from fear but from laughter, from shock, from the sheer audacity of what I was doing.

And then, with a flick of my wrist, I pulled his jeans all the way down.

To his knees.

He tripped. Fell straight to the floor with his bare knees hitting tile and his crusty underwear still trying to crawl up his spine. He looked like a broken toy someone had thrown across the room during a tantrum.

I stood over him, panting, flushed, hair falling over my face like I’d just been through battle.

And I said one more thing.

"Consider this your last warning!"

"And I never want to see you again! You bastard"

Then I stepped over his humiliated, pantsless body, turned my back on the gasps and giggles, and walked straight out the front door.

No music.

No apologies.

Just me.

And the night air swallowing me whole.