Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 92

Lyra

She dropped the plate in front of me like a cop slamming evidence on the table during an interrogation.

Then she slid into the stool across from me, crossed her arms on the counter, stared into my sin-stained soul, and said—so casually it felt like a trap:

"Tell me who the fuck you were fucking yesterday, Lyra."

I choked.

I actually choked.

Not metaphorically. Like, literally. Toast-in-throat. Juice-up-nose. Panic-mode choke.

I smacked my chest. Coughed. Wiped at my nose with my hoodie sleeve like a feral raccoon. Then stared at her like she’d just opened the gates of hell and asked me if I knew Lucifer personally.

"What the—what are you talking about?" I squeaked, voice three octaves too high and eyes too wide to look innocent. "I wasn’t—I wasn’t fucking anyone!"

She didn’t even blink.

She just tilted her head slightly to the side like a therapist about to diagnose me with ’Lying Whore Syndrome.’.

I tried to recover, took a deep breath, and powered through the most chaotic, badly planned lie of my entire existence.

"I was using a dildo," I said quickly. "And my fucking fingers. Okay? That’s it. That’s literally all. Self-care. Like normal girls do when they’re... hormonal and ovulating and bored. I was just... discovering myself. Spiritually. With batteries."

Tasha didn’t say a word.

She just stared at me for a full ten seconds. Silent. Still. Then she reached for her juice, took a very calm sip, and finally spoke with the kind of deadpan energy that made my skin itch.

"Girl."

Oh no.

"If your dildo made you scream ’Daddy’ three times and beg to be ruined like a cum-hungry Catholic schoolgirl, I want the link. I want the review. I want the brand, model number, voltage, and a tutorial on how to survive a seizure."

I dropped my head onto the counter with a loud, desperate groan and smacked my forehead against the wood like I could beat the shame out of my skull.

"I hate you," I mumbled into the toast.

She leaned in closer like a detective sniffing out the truth.

"I heard everything. Through the walls. Through the vents. Through my bones, Lyra. The house was vibrating like we summoned a succubus. You were moaning like the main character in a porn titled ’Daddy’s Little Whore Gets Punished.’"

"I was not!" I wailed, even though I 100% was.

"Stop lying!" she snapped, grinning. "You literally screamed. I heard the mattress. I heard him. His voice was so deep I thought a demon was haunting my house."

"I hate my life," I muttered. "I hate this juice. I hate toast. I hate your ears. I hate myself. I want to crawl into a hole and eat grass until I die of embarrassment."

"WHO WAS IT?"

"I’m not telling you."

Her eyes narrowed like a sniper lining up a shot.

"It was someone forbidden, wasn’t it?"

"No."

"Someone older."

"No."

"Someone with big hands and even bigger dick energy."

"I don’t know what that means."

"Someone whose voice sounds like sin and whose hips sound like thrust thrust thrust."

I slapped both hands over my ears.

"I was using a dildo and my fingers!" I yelled. "Just like every other normal teenage girl going through an identity crisis and a dry spell!"

Tasha slammed her fork onto her plate.

"Don’t play with me, Lyra. Tell me who the fuck had you screaming ’yes Daddy’ at 3AM while I was trying to cry in peace."

"I WAS SPIRITUALLY EXPRESSING MYSELF!"

"You were expressing your cervix!"

"I WAS STRETCHING MYSELF!"

"No, bitch. HE was stretching you. Whoever he is. And if you don’t start talking, I swear I’ll start a PowerPoint presentation with audio evidence and screen-recorded timestamps from the security camera footage in the hallway!"

I froze.

My breath stopped.

My soul left my body, did a backflip, and came back only to remind me that I was absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent fucked.

Not just physically.

Socially.

Emotionally.

Existentially.

And then.

As if the universe needed to punish me one more time.

Tasha dropped her final bomb.

"It was my dad, wasn’t it?"

My toast fell out of my hand.

The juice slid down my throat sideways and made me cough.

My eyes went wide.

Tasha stared at me.

And I—Lyra, overthinking, overstimulated, freshly bred, and still spiritually twitching—smiled like a lunatic and whispered:

"Would now be a bad time to pretend I’ve lost my memory?"

"The fuck," I muttered under my breath, eyes still wide and sanity hanging by a thread. "That’s so weird. That’s like... disgusting. You’re my best friend. He’s your dad. He’s—he’s way older than me. He’s like grown. With suits and credit scores and probably health insurance. Even if I can’t get over his dick. Fuck. I said that last part in my head. Please tell me I said that in my head."

I blinked. Swallowed.

Tasha just stared at me for a beat.

Then suddenly burst into the most chaotic, unhinged, witch-like cackle I’d ever heard in my life. She slapped her palm against the counter and doubled over, laughing like my trauma was her favorite Netflix special.

"Come on, girl!" she choked out between fits of laughter. "I’m just messing with you!"

I froze.

"What?"