Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 126

Lyra

He was next to me, bare-chested in grey sweats, slicing veggies like the sexy domestic menace he was, and the whole place smelled like garlic and butter and sin.

Tasha had gone out to do her nails. Classic. Acrylics to cover the guilt. French tips for the betrayal. I hoped the nail tech made her cry with the file, honestly.

And then, out of nowhere, Damon said it.

"What’s going on with you and Tasha, kitten?"

His voice was casual, but not really. It had that edge, that low, knowing tone he always used when he was clocking something deeper. He didn’t even look up—just kept slicing peppers like he hadn’t just stirred up a storm with a single question.

I blinked. "Huh? Nothing really."

He paused. Just for a second. But I felt it.

"You know how much I hate lies, kitten," he murmured, setting the knife down and finally looking at me. "Tell me what’s wrong."

And oh my God, the way he looked at me—ugh. That face. That voice. That fucking alpha energy that made me want to sob and scream and fuck him all at once.

I sighed. Dramatically. Because I’m me.

"Nothing. It’s just—" I shrugged and tried to pretend I was cool about it. Like it was whatever. Like I hadn’t been stewing in it for a week. "She fucked my ex."

He choked.

Like legit choked.

I turned toward him just in time to see him coughing like he’d inhaled a jalapeño and didn’t know what to do with it. His eyes bulged slightly, and I swear he looked at me like I’d just told him the house was on fire.

"What?" he finally gasped, grabbing a glass of water like the words alone had burned his throat. "She what?"

I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter, hips out, attitude on full display. "You heard me. My best friend—well, ex-best friend now, probably—fucked my ex-boyfriend. While I was in this house. Probably while I was waiting for her to come watch a movie with me or something. I don’t know when exactly. I don’t even want to know."

His jaw tightened.

I watched it happen in slow motion.

That little tick.

That dark shadow that fell over his features like a storm cloud had passed through his skull.

"Marcus right?" he asked, and his voice was no longer casual. It was cold. Like murder-cold. Like Damon-about-to-do-something-illegal cold.

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Marcus. My first dumb mistake. Apparently, also Tasha’s first opportunity to stab me in the back with her vagina."

He stared at me for a beat too long, and I knew that look. That look meant he was calculating something. Probably how much bail would be if he tracked Marcus down and broke his nose. Maybe his knees. Maybe his dick.

"You didn’t tell me," he said finally, quietly.

I shrugged again, softer this time. "What was I supposed to say? Hey Daddy, I know we’re busy doing unspeakable things in your bedroom, but just FYI my best friend decided to get dicked down by my ex-boyfriend and now I’m emotionally unstable but still really horny?"

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

He just stepped closer.

Put the knife down.

Wiped his hands on a towel.

Then cupped my face so gently it made my eyes sting.

"You’re not unstable," he said, kissing my forehead like I was something sacred. "You’re just hurt."

"I’m both," I whispered, pressing my cheek into his palm. "Like emotionally damaged with a splash of slut."

He growled low in his throat, and I knew that growl. That growl meant I was about to be carried out of the kitchen and thrown on a counter.

But I didn’t care.

"Do you want me to find him and rip his fucking throat out?"

The words came out of Damon’s mouth so casually, like he was asking me if I wanted extra butter on my toast or maybe a ride to school tomorrow. Except this wasn’t breakfast. This was bloodlust. This was murder talk. This was that deep, dark part of him I only saw when he was ready to destroy something—or someone—for me.

And oh my God.

Did I love it.

I blinked at him, not because I was shocked, but because I needed a second to process how violently turned on I was. My heart started thudding in my chest like I’d just sprinted around the block and my thighs pressed together on instinct because apparently my pussy didn’t give a single fuck about morals or logic or anything remotely sane.

"You can do that?" I asked, voice soft and kind of dreamy because holy shit I was actually considering it.

"Yes, I can, kitten," he said, voice low and dark and deadly like he was just waiting for me to say the word. "I can find him. I can make him cry. I can make him beg. And I can make sure he never fucking forgets what happens to boys who touch what belongs to me."

I stared up at him, and I swear my knees went a little wobbly. Not because I was scared. But because I was wet. Again. For like the fiftieth time this week. Because what the fuck was wrong with me? Why was threat-of-murder Damon my favorite version of Damon?

"That’s kinda hot," I said, like a literal demon child with no soul. "Not gonna lie."

He smirked, and oh my God, I knew that smirk. That was the smirk that came right before I lost the ability to walk.