Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 148

Lyra

Paired with a white camisole that hugged her surgically lifted tits so tightly it looked like the fabric was begging for mercy.

Her legs were tanned and toned, and her hair looked like she had it blown out by a team of stylists before dawn.

Like, ma’am, who looks that perfect at 8:00 AM? You just got out of rehab. Shouldn’t you be in a hoodie? Eating cereal straight out of the box? Maybe quietly regretting your life choices?

But no.

She was glowing. Like Botox-glowing. Like, "Hi I’m a MILF and I know it" glowing. And the moment she saw me, her fake-ass smile stretched so wide I thought it might crack her face.

"Oh hi, dear!" she said, in that bright, sugary tone that instantly made my skin crawl. "Good morning!"

I blinked. My fingers tightened around my bag strap. My stomach twisted like it knew a passive-aggressive storm was coming.

"You must be Tasha’s best friend, right?"

I paused. I mean... was I? That felt like a stretch after everything that had happened. But I wasn’t in the mood to correct her or dive into the tragic tale of betrayal. So I just nodded once and forced a neutral smile.

"Yeah," I said simply.

She looked at me. I mean looked at me. Her eyes dragged down my body, slow and judging, like I was some menu item she wasn’t sure belonged in the kitchen.

And then she said it.

The most unnecessary, out-of-pocket, audacity-dripping line of the century.

"She took the bus so I guess you’d catch up with her right?"

"And I must say You’re a little too thick for your age, don’t you think so?" she asked with a tilt of her head, like she was genuinely curious. "And that skirt is too short. It brings out your ass."

I froze. For a second, I thought I misheard her. I genuinely thought my ears were malfunctioning because there was no way this woman was slut-shaming me in Damon’s kitchen less than twelve hours after he ate my pussy like it was his last meal on earth.

"Huh?" I said, blinking like I’d just been hit with a frying pan.

She was still smirking. Still giving me that condescending once-over like I was some stripper who wandered into her Pilates class.

"What the hell is wrong with this woman?" I mumbled under my breath, more to myself than to her.

Then I straightened up. Tilted my chin. And let the sarcasm roll in smooth and strong.

"You are not my mum, ma’am," I said, and I made sure to hit that ma’am with extra bite. "And it’s genetics. My mum has a big behind. So don’t feel intimidated."

Boom. I said it. Loud and proud. And the look on her face? Priceless.

She scoffed like a villain in a teen drama. Tossed her perfectly curled blonde hair over her shoulder and let out the fakest laugh I’ve ever heard.

"Me? Intimidated by a kid?" she said, eyes narrowing. "Don’t make me laugh, child.

She didn’t stop there.

Of course she didn’t.

Because women like her never do. Women like her — the perfect, blonde, icy wife with the yoga body and the botoxed forehead — they always feel like they’ve got more to say. Like the world asked for their opinion. Like someone handed them a mic and begged for their judgment.

She folded her arms under her suspiciously perky boobs and tilted her head again like she was trying to figure out whether to insult me with sugar or spit.

"My husband is around," she said, voice suddenly low and sharp like broken glass under silk. "And I don’t want him seeing thick, fat asses and thighs from teenage girls walking around the house like it’s a whorehouse."

My jaw dropped.

Like, actually dropped.

I blinked at her so hard I saw stars. The sheer nerve of this bitch. She didn’t just imply I was throwing my body around — she flat-out called me thick and slutty like she doesn’t even know the same husband she just called had his tongue halfway up my cunt not even twelve hours ago.

Oh. Oh. She really picked the right one today.

I straightened my spine, turned to face her fully, and gave her a slow, full-body scan with my eyes. Just like she did to me. My gaze dipped down to her microscopic shorts, then crawled up to her tank top, then back to her smug, lip-glossed face.

"Well, excuse me, ma’am," I said, sweet as a fucking blade dipped in honey. "I am not a teen. I am fully legal. And you’re the one wearing shorts, aren’t you? Or are you just jealous because you’ve got a flat ass and no amount of squats or surgery can fix that?"

Her face froze.

And I swear, for one brief, glorious second, I saw the real her flicker behind the glam — the insecure, bitter, washed-up version of the woman she used to be before the pills and the rehab and the cheating husband.

"Watch your mouth, you little—"

She lunged forward a step.

I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I was vibrating with rage and adrenaline and the urge to slap that smug lip-gloss off her face, but I held my ground. Because I didn’t have to say another word.

His voice did the rest.

"Camilla."

It was low. Dangerous. Familiar.

My head turned.

There he was.

Damon.

Standing right behind me. His voice sharp as a whip, his body blocking the doorway like a wall of heat and fury. His eyes locked on her, not me, and there was something in them — something lethal.

"Don’t you dare touch her."