Ch. 51..55: Breed Me, Daddy Alpha chapter 51-55

Favorite Sin 51

She straightened up, wiping a tear from her eye, still giggling like she’d just pulled the world’s most expensive prank. Her laugh had that high–pitched, wheezy chaos to it – the kind of sound that came from the gut, like she was unhinged and delighted and fully prepared to emotionally destroy me before breakfast.

“You should’ve seen your face,” she choked out between gasps. “You looked like you were about to s**t yourself and cry at the same time. Like a constipated Disney princess mid–breakdown. I thought you were about to pass out, b***h. Like faint, fall, and land in your own sin.”

I blinked again. Jaw dropped. Soul missing. Pride on life support.

“Haha,” I said stiffly. “Yeah. Right. So funny. Such a good joke. Bestie things. Love that for me. This was a very expensive joke, emotionally, mentally, spiritually… but sure. Let’s laugh about it. Let’s all just ha–ha our way through the gaping hole in my soul. Let’s sprinkle some trauma seasoning on it while we’re at it.”

She didn’t stop smiling.

Tasha reached across the counter and tapped her fork lightly against my forehead like she was trying to see if my skull was hollow.

“You’re too easy, Lyra. Like, comically easy. I could tell you the sky was green and you’d pack your bags for

therapy.”

“I have trust issues!” I hissed, clutching my glass like it was a holy relic. “My childhood was full of lies and waist trainers and broken promises from MTN! I don’t do well with surprises!”

–

She snorted but then gave me a weird look – something in her expression softening just slightly, like she was remembering something.

“Do you know this girl from my old class?” she said suddenly, serious now, almost low–key. “Back in secondary school. Her name was Miracle or Melody or something that didn’t match her actual behavior. Anyway, she f****d her best friend’s dad once.”

I froze.

Tasha went on.

“No one even knew how it started. But one day she came late to school with this limpy–ass walk and a fresh hairstyle and new iPhone and everybody was like, ‘okay, she either has a sugar daddy or sold her kidney. Turns out it was her bestie’s dad. s**t hit the fan so fast. People stopped sitting near her. She couldn’t walk past a classroom without hearing ‘daddy’s girl‘ or ‘call me uncle.‘ Her whole rep was ruined. Like gone. Flushed. She left the school three weeks later. Vanished.”

My heart was thudding like someone was banging on my chest from the inside.

“She said it was just once,” Tasha added with a shrug. “But the class didn’t care. You f**k someone’s dad, you get branded. That’s how it works. You don’t recover from that.

I swallowed, hard.

Why the f**k was she telling me this?

Marcus Returns

My palms were sweaty. My hoodie suddenly felt tight around my neck like it was trying to strangle me with gullt. My legs crossed tighter beneath the stool and I could practically hear my heartbeat behind my ears

Tasha leaned in just a little, eyes locked on mine.

“I’m just saying,” she said carefully. “If that ever happened to someone I knew someone close to me -I’d want them to be honest. Because secrets like that? They never stay secrets for too long”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again like a fish gasping for air.

Then I finally managed a sentence, though it came out in a whisper like my dignity was trying to backspace

itself in real time.

“Damn. That girl is really nuts,” I said, eyes wide, pretending my stomach wasn’t currently dissolving from anxiety acid. “Why would she–like, seriously, why would she f**k her best friend’s dad? What was she thinking? That’s crazy. That’s literally insanity. That’s like mental illness wrapped in daddy issues and dipped

in betrayal.”

Tasha didn’t respond. She just stared.

And I, being the emotionally unstable chatterbox that I am, kept going like my life depended on the speed of

my voice.

“Like I get it, maybe the man was hot or rich or wore suits or whatever, but that’s someone’s father. Like not sugar daddy, not zaddy, not anonymous Twitter DILF. That’s your best friend’s actual dad. As in the man who changed her diapers. The man who probably has cholesterol and back pain. That’s not sexy. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Still no reaction.

She just blinked.

Which of course made me spiral more.

“I mean, what kind of girl even lets it get that far?” I continued, because silence makes me panic. “How do you go from ‘hi sir, good afternoon sir, happy birthday sir‘ to ‘wreck my p***y, Daddy‘? Like where’s the transition? Where’s the moral compass? Where’s the shame? Is it dead? Did shè bury it beside her self–respect?”

I laughed. A high–pitched, unhinged kind of laugh that sounded more like a scream in therapy.

Tasha didn’t crack a smile.

At all.

My stomach sank like the Titanic. My throat went dry. My hoodie felt like a noose.

But my mouth?

Oh, she kept running.

I slammed my hand on the counter dramatically.

“Some people really don’t fear.

Marcus Returns

Tasha leaned back slowly, her eyes dragging over my face like she was peeling back my skin with her stare.

She wasn’t amused.

Not anymore.

And me?

I was sweating like I’d just been interrogated by Jesus.

She crossed her arms and tilted her head again, that same tilt that made the air go cold.

Like she knew.

Like she didn’t need me to say it because my face was already spelling it out in guilt–font Times New Roman.

And then.

Her eyes narrowed like a hawk zeroing in on prey. Her whole posture shifted – no longer casual, no longer teasing just still. Focused. Suspicious.

Her voice dropped, slow and curious.

“You’re acting… weird.”

I blinked, too hard.

“What? No. I’m acting totally normal. This is my normal. This is my exact personality.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “Hmm.”

Oh God.

“Hmmm.”

Stop hmmmm–ing me!

Then she leaned in just a little, elbows on the counter, voice low like she was about to deliver a sermon.

“Are you… lying to me?”

Boom.

That was it.

My body betrayed me instantly.

My fingers jerked, my knee hit the stool leg, and the water bottle I’d just grabbed to calm my panic decided to betray me in public. I tilted it up too fast, missed the timing, and nearly drowned myself on the spot. A full spasm of coughing exploded out of me as the cold water shot down the wrong pipe, up my nose, and straight. into my frontal lobe.

I slammed the bottle down, choking and coughing and sputtering like a possessed blender, eyes tearing, throat burning, chest heaving like I’d just run from the police.

Tasha didn’t blink.

She just stared.

Then–bam.

She laughed.

Marcus Rehens

Again.

“Got you again,” she wheezed, pointing at me like I was the world’s dumbest sitcom character: “You gullible

bitch.”

I stared at her, still coughing, still wheezing, water dripping down my chin.

“Tasha!” I rasped, clutching my throat like I was dying. “You can’t just-

She grinned wider.

“Gullible. As. Fuck.”

I was about to talk about what my mum told me about me finishing high school here, then there was a sudden flurry of movement from down the hall, followed by the sound of very expensive shoes slapping against the marble.

Damon.

Oh God.

He came rushing into the kitchen like a goddamn storm in a designer suit, looking like a snack with his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his charcoal jacket half–thrown over one shoulder like he’d just finished destroying the world and was headed to brunch.

I blinked twice.

Right. I forgot. He’s actually a billionaire. And an Alpha.

He didn’t glance at me immediately. He went straight to the counter, grabbed his keys, a folder, his phone, and then finally–finally–he looked up and locked eyes with me.

And Jesus Christ.

My uterus tried to stand up and salute.

“Where are you in a hurry to, Dad?” Tasha asked with a casual grin, biting into her toast like this wasn’t the most awkward tension–filled room in the country.

“I need to be in Spain,” he said briskly, eyes still on me. “Something important came up. I have to catch the jet

now.”

Jet.

Right.

Because this man doesn’t do cars or buses or economy–class living. He does jets and power and probably orgasm schedules.

He walked over to Tasha, leaned down, kissed her on the cheek, and muttered, “Text me if you need anything.” Then, like the climax of a goddamn drama series, he looked at me again.

Just for a second.

But it was loaded.

He didn’t kiss me. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t say a word about what had happened last night–about the things he’d done to my body, about the way he’d destroyed my entire perception of

5 Marcus Renuine

pleasure and made me whimper Daddy while my mom was on the phone trying to tell me about boarding

school.

He just… looked.

And our eyes said everything.

My stomach flipped so hard I almost fell off the stool.

“Take care, Lyra,” he said softly, his voice like a velvet threat, and then he turned and walked out like a man with kingdoms to conquer.

The silence he left behind was thick.

I just sat there staring at the doorway like it might suck me into an alternate universe where I wasn’t the horniest, most confused, mentally unstable teenage girl on the planet.

Tasha raised an eyebrow.

Then grinned again.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That look.”

“There was no look,” I snapped, stuffing a piece of toast in my mouth like it could plug the emotional leak in my chest. “You’re imagining things. Your eyes are broken. You need medical attention and a lobotomy.”

Tasha didn’t even flinch.

She just grinned wider and leaned back in her chair, popping a grape into her mouth like she was living her best life in some Netflix teen drama where I was the emotionally unstable sidekick with a c*m addiction. “Anyways,” she said casually, swirling her juice like it was a cocktail and not orange liquid disappointment,” now that my dad’s gone…”

Oh God.

“Tasha,” I said slowly, already suspicious.

“…I’m throwing a party!”

I blinked.

“What?”

“A party! Here. Tonight. We’re doing it, b***h. It’s happening. Operation Let’s–Get–Drunk–and–Embarrass–Ourselves 3.0.”

I dropped my toast.

“Tasha,” I said again, louder this time. “I thought your dad said no more parties ever again.”

She shrugged like the laws of the universe didn’t apply to her.

“That’s his problem. He’s not here, is he?”

I stared at her. She stared back. And that’s when I realized something even more terrifying than Damon’s

knot.

Marcus Returns

Her smile got bigger.

Sneakler.

Sinister.

“Guess who I invited,” she sang in a voice that immediately gave me a stress rash.

My blood went cold.

Please

no.

Please not who I think it is.

I swallowed. “Who?”

She tilted her head, smile sparkling with evil.

“Marcus.”

I nearly dropped my entire soul.

“You have got to be kidding me!”

Favorite Sin 52

~Lyra~

“You have got to be kidding me!”

I shot up so fast the stool screamed against the tile, nearly toppling over as I pointed one trembling, accusatory finger straight at her forehead like I was about to cast a bitchy curse.

“You invited Marcus? Like Marcus Marcus? My Marcus? The Marcus who ruined my life and then had the audacity to ask for a selfie after emotionally annihilating me?”

Tasha just blinked at me, chewing her toast like she hadn’t just detonated a trauma bomb in the middle of my kitchen. Her face was way too casual for someone who had just dragged my dignity out into the street and run it over with a party invitation.

I was already spiraling.

“Tasha! Don’t you remember what that boy did to me? Don’t you remember how he insulted me because ! didn’t give him my virginity? Are you f*****g insane? Because I remember everything! I remember the way he looked at me like I was some defective product.

“I remember the voice note where he said I was pretty but clearly inexperienced and that he didn’t date girls

who didn’t know how to ride. I remember the messages.

“I remember the laugh reacts from people I thought were my friends. I remember sitting in the bathroom stall during P.E. with toilet paper in my hand, trying to figure out if I was ugly or just delusional.”

Tasha rolled her eyes.

“Oh my God, Lyra. It’s not that deep.”

I gasped so loud the air left the building.

“Not that deep? Tasha, I cried for days. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I blocked him, unblocked him, stalked him, cried again, deleted his number, memorized it, then screamed into my pillow every time I saw the letter

“I literally considered selling my soul for closure, and you’re telling me it’s not that deep?”

Tasha shrugged like I’d just complained about the weather.

“It’s in the past. People move on. You should too. Like, grow up, babe.”

I clutched my chest like she’d stabbed me with a glitter pen.

“Grow up? Tasha, I’m literally eighteen. I just grew into my hips last semester. I still have braces in my old selfies. I’m still figuring out if I’m a bad b***h or a permanently anxious raccoon with lip gloss. And you’re telling me to grow up? Because I don’t want to be in the same house as the boy who slut–shamed me for being a virgin? Because I don’t want to watch the same boy who said I was emotionally immature do body shots off your cousin’s waist while I stand in the corner trying not to cry into the cheese platter?”

She didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. She just looked at me like I was doing too much – which, fair, I probably was but that didn’t mean I was going to stop.

–

“I’m not crazy

for still being pissed! That boy made me question my entire self–worth! He made me feel like there was something wrong with me because I didn’t want to give him my body like it was a f*****g participation trophy. He told people I was frigid, that I ‘acted grown but folded when it mattered. Tasha, he told people I probably still sleep with teddy bears. Which is true, but it’s the principle! That was privatel

She took another bite of toast like she wasn’t currently watching my mental breakdown in Dolby surround

sound.

“Oh my God, breathe.”

“I am breathing! I’m breathing spite! I’m breathing betrayal! I’m breathing post–traumatic Marcus disorder,

Tasha!”

She rolled her eyes again and reached for her phone. “You need to let it go.”

“No. What I need is for you to uninvite that emotionally manipulative bastard before I call on the ancestors

and let them deal with you personally.”

She smirked without looking up. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? DRAMATIC? Tasha, you don’t even know the half of it. That boy kissed me, ghosted me for three days, then came back with a meme about girls who don’t swallow. He humiliated me, made me feel like I was broken, like something was wrong with me for not spreading my legs like Wi–Fi, and now you want me to shake ass to Burna Boy in the same room as him like that didn’t happen? Are you okay? Are you high? Or just

spiritually irresponsible?”

She looked up slowly and blinked.

“Are you done?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“No. I haven’t even started.”

Because my brain was racing. My stomach was doing gymnastics. And beneath all of that chaos was the real truth that I didn’t want to say out loud – that Marcus was the first person I almost gave it to. That I thought I loved him. That I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be ready if it was with him. And he ruined it. Not just the moment. He ruined the whole idea of s*x for me. Turned it into a weapon. Made it feel like something I owed instead of something I wanted.

But instead of saying all that, I just folded my arms and hissed.

“God is watching you, Tasha. From heaven. With judgment and lightning bolts. So I hope your playlist is

worth it.”

She snorted, completely unbothered.

“I’m making jollof rice. Do you want to help or do you want to sit there and relive your trauma over a boy who peaked in what grade agln?”

I hissed louder.

But I got up anyway.

The Past Catches tip

Because I knew how this night was going to go.

There would be music. There would be drinks. There would be dancing. And there would be Marcus. In my space. Looking hot. Acting like we never happened. And knowing me?

There would be consequences.

God help me.

We were in the kitchen ten minutes later, sleeves rolled up, pot already on the fire, and me aggressively chopping onions like they personally insulted my ancestors. The scent of frying tomatoes was rising in the

air, and so was my blood pressure.

Tasha was doing that annoying thing where she danced with the spoon like she was in a music video, flipping her braids like she hadn’t just emotionally sucker–punched me.

I stared at her.

Then I blinked.

Then I snapped, “How did you even invite Marcus anyway? Wasn’t he in some country or some s**t? I swear he posted a picture like last week with that fake Cartier watch and a backdrop of red dust.”

Tasha didn’t look up from the pot.

“We’ve been texting.”

I dropped the onion knife.

“You’ve been what?”

She shrugged. “We talk sometimes.”

“You’ve been texting my ex?”

She stirred the stew, unbothered. “Yeah. He hit me up a while ago. Said he was coming back to town. I told him we might be throwing a party. He said he might pull up.”

I blinked again, dramatically this time.

“So… you’re friends with my ex now?”

She gave me a look. “We’re not friends. We’re just cool.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest like someone had stabbed me with a wooden spoon.

“Wow. That’s so nice. Truly. That’s the kind of sisterhood I live for. I’m over here crying in the bathtub about him, meanwhile you’re texting like ‘Hey boo, what flight you on?‘ Are you gonna braid his hair next? Swap skincare tips? Help him pick a suit for his next heartbreak victim?”

Tasha sighed like she was already tired of my existence.

“Lyra, calm down.”

“No, I will not calm down, Tasha. Because this is betrayal. Biblical betrayal. Like Judas with better eyebrows. You’re supposed to be my best friend, not his long–distance pen pal!”

She hissed and tossed in more seasoning like she was trying to shut me up with flavor.

< The Past Catches Up

“I’m not in love with him, babe. I just invited him to a party. You’re not that deep.“.

“I am that deep!” I shrieked, flinging Maggi cubes onto the counter like they were evidence. “He saw me naked emotionally. He held my heart in his crusty palm and crushed it like chin chin! And you’re telling me I’m overreacting because he’s now bringing a bottle and vibes?”

She stirred harder. I stirred harder. We were both stirring like this pot held the secrets of the universe.

I muttered under my breath the entire time.

“Texting my ex. Bringing him to my house. This is a witch’s coven. I live with a witch. My best friend is a

witch.”

Tasha ignored me.

I side–eyed her.

She danced to Burna Boy on the speaker.

I pouted like a child.

But the food was starting to smell good. And my mouth, as usual, couldn’t stop even when I tried.

“I swear, if he touches me tonight, I’ll slap him. Or bite off his balls. Or slap him then hit his balls. No, wait, that’s toxic. Jesus. This is why I need therapy and a muzzle.”

She didn’t respond.

And then

Like movie magic, like a t****k transformation edit, like a sudden drop in GPA the doorbell rang.

And just like that… it began.

~~~

The house had transformed.

Tasha’s playlist was bouncing through the speakers like the walls were having a party of their own. There were bodies everywhere. People from school. People I didn’t know.

A few girls from her cousin’s class doing shots and talking about cheating respectfully. Some guy in a bucket hat rolling weed on the dining table like it was a spiritual ritual.

I stood near the snacks, dressed in my scandalous little black dress that barely covered my regrets, clutching a red cup like it was a lifeline.

My stomach was already bubbling with anxiety.

Tasha came swaying past me, laughing, her phone in her hand.

She paused, looked over her shoulder, and smirked.

“Guess who just texted.”

My heart stopped.

“Who?”

She turned the screen around.

< The Past Catches Up

One word.

Marcus.

Then a second text.

“Outside.”

I nearly choked on air.

And that was when the music dropped into something slow, something sexy, something that screamed you’re about to be tested by the universe, and the front door creaked open.

He stepped in.

Looking fine.

Looking taller.

Looking like every memory I tried to bury under ice cream and motivational quotes.

And his eyes?

They found me instantly.

Favorite Sin 53

The moment Marcus walked in through that front door like he owned oxygen, I swear the entire house shifted. I mean it. The music dipped, the lights felt hotter, even the freaking air got weird and heavy like the universe itself was preparing for my breakdown.

And me?

I stood there like a stunned little loser in heels too high for my soul, gripping my red cup like it contained holy water instead of watered–down vodka punch, and staring at him like I’d just seen a demon crawl out of my past wearing expensive cologne and a smug little smirk.

Oh my God. It was him.

Marcus–f*****g–Adesina.

My ex.

The boy who ruined my life. The one who made me question every single thing about myself – from my thighs to my values to whether or not I was lovable.

The same boy who slut–shamed me for not having s*x with him, then had the audacity to flirt with my lab

partner the next week like I was just a warm–up exercise.

The same boy who said I was “pretty but boring” because I wasn’t ready to ride him like a cowgirl while I was

still figuring out what positions even meant.

I swear I could feel my stomach fold into itself.

And of course, he looked good. Because Satan doesn’t punish his own.

He was taller. Broader. His jawline looked like it’d been carved out of spite. Black jacket. Chain. Neatly done braids that I wanted to yank out with prayer and holy rage. And when his eyes met mine – those same eyes

that once convinced me I was special – I felt my soul clench like it was bracing for impact.

No. Nope. I hated him.

I hated him.

I hated the way he looked at me like he’d seen me naked – which, emotionally, he had – and didn’t even feel

bad about it. I hated the way he smiled like he could still get under my skin. I hated that my skin let him. And

most of all, I hated that he was here. In my house. At my party. Looking at me like we had unfinished

business when I swore to God I buried him in my therapy journal three mental breakdowns ago.

Tasha slid up beside me with the dumbest smirk on her face.

“Guess who’s here,” she whispered like a gleeful devil. “Marcus.”

No s**t, Sherlock. I could smell the heartbreak from here.

Before I could answer, he started walking toward me. Calm. Confident. Cocky in that way that only boys with

no conscience could pull off. Like he didn’t even care how deeply he’d hurt me. Like we were still friends. Like

I didn’t cry into a family–sized ice cream tub while watching Twilight and screaming at the screen because

III

O

Bombshell

Edward at least had the decency to be conflicted about ruining Bella’s life.

He got close. Too close.

“Lyra,” he said, like my name was a joke only he understood.

I blinked at him. Slowly. Deliberately. Like I was trying to decide whether to slap him with my words or my

shoe.

He looked down at my cup. “Still drinking red cups at parties, huh?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Still talking like you’re auditioning for a movie nobody wants to watch?”

He laughed.

God, I wanted to slap him.

“I see you still hate me,” he said.

“Hate is a strong word,” I replied sweetly, clutching my cup so hard I was scared it would shatter. “I’d say I detest you. With the kind of energy people reserve for traffic and Wi–Fi that buffers during climax scenes. You are literally the human embodiment of why girls go to therapy:”

He didn’t even flinch. Just smiled. The nerve of this boy.

“You look good,” he said, eyes dragging over my body like he was allowed.

I smiled back. “And you look like a cautionary tale. A walking red flag. A lesson I should’ve learned the first

time. But hey second degree burns build character.”

He tilted his head. “Still got that fire. I like that.”

I nearly gagged. “You also liked calling me frigid because I wouldn’t let you put your unwashed demon d**k

inside me, remember that?”

His smile froze.

I leaned in, voice lower now. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough, Marcus. You humiliated me. You made

me believe that not giving you s*x meant I didn’t love you. You made jokes about me to your friends. You

turned something sacred to me into a punchline. So yeah. I look good now. But I felt like s**t for months because of you.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to defend himself – like he hadn’t been the villain in every chapter of

that story and I held up my hand.

–

“Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. Don’t act like this is nostalgia. It’s not. It’s trauma. Dressed in denim and cologne.”

He stared at me, quiet now.

Then he did that thing. That stupid smirk. That little arrogant smirk that said he still thought he had power over me. That smirk I used to think was cute, before I realized it was hiding fangs.

And then – oh my God – he leaned in. Right into my space. Into my breath. Into my unresolved wounds.

“If I kissed you right now,” he said low, like a threat, “would you still pull away?”

I didn’t blink.

O

Bombshell

I didn’t stutter.

I looked him right in the eyes, tilted my chin like the bad b***h I was learning to become, and smiled.

“No. I’d slap you. Then I’d rinse my mouth with holy water and burn the air between us.”

He blinked.

I turned away.

Because I was done.

Not healed. Not okay. But done.

And if he tried me tonight?

I would show him what it meant to play with a girl who learned how to set fire to her own pain.

I don’t know what kind of ancient demon possessed Marcus that night, but the way he leaned in to me like we were about to have some cute, nostalgic movie moment where old flames reignite under disco lights and fake forgiveness I swear my body rejected it.

He was right in front of me, inches away, his breath hitting my face like temptation and trauma mixed into one. His stupid smirk was back, eyes half–lidded like he thought this was foreplay. Like I still wanted him. Like two years of pain and humiliation were just foreplay for the big reunion kiss.

I stood there frozen, heart thumping like it was trying to fight its way out of my chest and run out the front door, but then his hand reached up – and I snapped.

No, I detonated.

I slapped him.

So hard.

Like ancestors rose in my palm and said, “Let her cook.”

The entire party froze. Music still played in the background like the world hadn’t just ended, but the people? They stopped. Mid–dance, mid–laugh, mid–sip. Like the slap echoed through the floorboards and rearranged everyone’s understanding of who the hell I was.

Marcus’s head tilted sideways from the impact, jaw clenched, face stunned, hand still slightly raised as if he

was holding the kiss that never happened.

I dropped my cup.

Didn’t even flinch when the red liquid splashed all over my sandals and the floor. I didn’t care. I didn’t blink. I didn’t even apologize – because sorry was for accidents, and this? This was a public service announcement.

He looked at me slowly, like he couldn’t believe it. Like I was supposed to still be that little broken girl crying in the bathroom stall with toilet paper in my hand, replaying his voice note over and over again. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. I was eighteen. I was angry. And I had a platform now – the entire party.

I stepped forward.

“Don’t you ever,” I started, voice trembling from how hard I was holding it together, “try to touch me like that again. Not here. Not ever. Not after what you did. Not after how you made me feel like I wasn’t enough unless

|||

Bombshell

I stripped for your ego.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to speak, and I cut him off with a raised finger.

“No. Don’t talk. Don’t even breathe in my direction right now. You think this is cute? You think just because

you got taller and started dressing like an i********: reel that I forgot everything? I remember, Marcus.

“I remember everything. The voice notes. The comments. The way you laughed about me in your group chat. The way you told people I probably didn’t even know what head meant, like my innocence was funny, like my body was some dumb joke you couldn’t cash in on.”

He had the nerve to shift like he was uncomfortable. Good.

“You kissed me, made me feel like I mattered, then ghosted me and came back with a meme about girls who don’t suck d**k. You made me feel like my worth was tied to what I didn’t give you. You made me think something was wrong with me. And now you walk back in here, like nothing happened, like we’re just two old

flames with unresolved tension?”

I laughed. Loud. Bitter.

“There’s no tension here. There’s just me trying not to vomit in this party dress while you parade around acting like you’re God’s gift to women.”

Gasps. Murmurs. I could feel the room shifting. People were watching. And I didn’t even care anymore.

Then I heard it.

Low. Whispered.

Behind me.

“She slapped him harder than she slapped Tasha when she found out.“–

The breath caught in my throat.

Wait.

I turned slowly. Because something in my bones knew.

“What did you just say?” I asked, voice too calm. Too still.

The girl blinked. Froze. “Nothing. I–I didn’t mean-”

I locked eyes with Tasha.

She had the nerve to avoid my gaze.

My best friend. My sister in soul ties and snack runs. My partner in pain. She was staring at her shoes like they held the secret to world peace.

I stepped forward again.

“Tasha. What the f**k is she talking about.”

She didn’t answer.

Oh. Oh no.

“Tasha. What. The f**k. Is she talking about?”

Still silence. Just the low bass of the music and my own blood screaming in my ears.

O

Bombshell

48 points >

And then someone else some drunk i***t who didn’t know how to shut up – decided to end my life.

–

“She means when Tasha and Marcus hooked up last year.”

The silence that followed could’ve sucked the roof off the house.

I stared at Tasha. I mean stared.

My brain tried to process, to reject, to pretend maybe they meant another Tasha or another Marcus, but my stomach already knew the truth. It dropped like a bag of bricks. My chest hollowed. My throat tightened.

“You what?”

She looked up finally. Her face was pale. Her mouth opened. Closed.

“It was..it was just once. It didn’t mean anything. It was stupid…“.

Oh f**k this b***h!”

Favorite Sin 54

Did You Ride Him?

~~Lyra

22

“It was just once.”

That’s what she said.

Those exact words.

And I swear for a second – I didn’t even feel my body anymore. I was outside myself, hovering somewhere above the chaos like a rejected angel watching my life burn in real, time. I blinked. My ears rang. My soul

detached. I was standing there in heels and heartbreak, in the middle of a party I didn’t even want, and my

best friend just looked me in the eye and said it was just once.

Once.

Like that somehow made it better.

Like that made the d**k smaller. The betrayal softer. The memory less soul–crushing.

I stared at her.

I stared so long and so hard my vision blurred.

“You f****d him.”

My voice cracked. Not because I was confused. But because I was confirming it out loud for the first time. My brain needed my mouth to say it so it could finally accept that this nightmare was real.

“You… f****d him.”

Tasha flinched, eyes wide, face pale like she’d only just realized how far gone we were.

“Lyra-”

“No no no no, don’t Lyra me,” I hissed, stepping forward, my chest rising and falling so fast I thought I’d pass out. “Did he put his d**k in you?”

The party went dead silent.

“Answer me, Tasha! Did. He. Put. His. d**k. In. You?!”

Someone in the corner gasped. I heard it. I didn’t care.

“Did you ride him?” I shouted, voice rising like a possessed choir girl. “Did you sit on his nasty crusty demon d**k while I was crying into my pillow over him?! Did you moan for him, Tasha?! Did you suck his d**k?! Did you let him call you baby while I was in the bathroom stall trying to figure out if I was enough?!”

Her mouth opened.

No words came out.

“Oh my God.”

I laughed. Full–on, jaw–wide, hysterical, I’m losing my mind laughter.

“You did,” I breathed, blinking fast. “You really did. While I was sitting in my bed holding your hand and

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Pid You Ride Him?

replaying his voice notes, while I was asking you if you thought he missed me you were out here gagging on him like a damn chew toy.”

“Lyra, it didn’t mean anything,” she said again, tears forming in her eyes like she was the victim.

I scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich. So it didn’t mean anything when his d**k was inside you? When he was on top of you? Or behind you? Or wherever the f**k he put you while I was busy calling you my soulmate?”

I was shouting now. Not even trying to control it. Not even pretending I had dignity left. Because this wasn’t just betrayal. This was war. Emotional homicide. Best friend treason.

“Did you moan for him?” I asked, voice shaking. “Did you say his name? Did you beg him to go deeper while I was across town wondering why I wasn’t good enough to make him stay?”

She choked on a sob.

Good.

“Was it raw?” I asked, crossing my arms like I wasn’t actively falling apart. “Did he c*m in you, Tasha? Did you let him finish inside like a good little cumdump while I was still a virgin waiting for someone to respect me?” The room was quiet. People were staring. Phones were out. And I didn’t care.

“Tell me the position, Tasha. Doggy? Missionary? Did you ride him reverse like one of those girls in the porn vids he always used to send me when I said I wasn’t ready? Tell me!”

“I didn’t mean to-” she whispered, sobbing.

“But you did!” I screamed, voice cracking again. “You meant to f**k him. You meant to lie. You meant to pretend you were my best friend while his d**k was still fresh in your throat!”

The crowd gasped.

And I didn’t stop.

“Did he say you were better than me?” I asked, lip trembling. “Did he compare us? Did he tell you I was childish while you made him c*m? Did he say you were more woman than me because you opened your legs when I said no?”

“Lyra, please…”

“Don’t touch me!”

She reached forward, and I stepped back so fast I nearly slipped on my own broken pride.

“You let me sob over him, you evil b***h. You hugged me while your panties still probably smelled like him. You knew how he made me feel. You knew how he humiliated me. And you still opened your legs like a damn invitation card.”

Tears were running down my face. My makeup was done. My chest was heaving. I could taste salt, heartbreak, rage, and a little bit of vodka.

“And for what?” I shouted. “For what, Tasha? For a five–minute f**k from a boy who couldn’t even handle a girl who respected her own boundaries? A boy who slut–shamed me for not giving him head and then turned around and called you easy behind your back?”

That made her flinch.

O

215

That You Hide Him

Yeah. I said it.

“Oh, you didn’t know that part?” I snarled. “You thought he chose you? Baby, no. You were just available.”

I said it slowly, like each word needed to be savored, like each syllable deserved its own spotlight for the kind of psychological m******e I was about to deliver.

My voice wasn’t loud – not yet but it was sharp enough to slice through the bass, the whispers, the air itself. Every single person in that room turned to look at me like I’d just snapped my fingers and summoned

fire.

Tasha looked up at me, lips trembling, mascara smudged, like her soul was starting to realize the seatbelt

had come undone and the ride was about to crash.

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 f*****g 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 s*x 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 c*m, 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 prétend 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.

1

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О

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.

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Dad You Ride Him?

“Consider this your last warning!”

“And I never want to see you again! You bastard”

+3 Points 2

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.

Favorite Sin 55The Pain Of Knowing

~Lyra~

The second the cold air hit my face, I lost it.

I didn’t even make it down the steps. I just collapsed onto the front porch like my legs gave out, like my body finally got the memo that my soul had already left the chat. My knees hit the concrete, and I curled in on myself, hugging my arms so tight around my chest you’d think I was trying to hold my heart in place.

And then I started crying.

Not cute crying. Not sniffles or delicate tears or the kind of weeping you do in slow–motion under the rain with dramatic piano music. No. This was the ugly kind.

The loud, snotty, gasping kind. My nose was running. My face was soaked. My eyeliner had given up and was now somewhere halfway down my chin. My chest felt like it was caving in, and my breath kept catching like my lungs were glitching.

And the worst part?

I couldn’t stop talking.

“f**k,” I whispered first, the word dragging out of my mouth like it weighed five tons. “f**k. f**k. Oh my God. What the hell was that. What the actual hell did I just do.”

I wiped my face, but it didn’t help. My hands were shaking too much to do anything right.

“I kicked him in the balls. I f*****g kicked him. Like, actually. Not metaphorically. Like, in front of everyone. And the wedgie? Who the hell gives someone a wedgie in 2025? Am I a cartoon villain? What the f**k is

wrong with me?”

More sobs came. I tried to breathe through them, but every inhale made it worse, like oxygen was bullying

me.

“I pulled his pants down. Jesus. I pulled his f*****g pants down. Like I’m some revenge–obsessed freak who

gets off on public humiliation. I’m gonna go viral, aren’t I? Someone’s gonna post it on t****k with a dumb

sound and a million likes and a hashtag like #WedgieWarrior or #HeartbreakHazard and oh my God-”

I stopped. Choked on a sob. Slammed both fists into my thighs.

H

“Why did it have to be them?” I shouted, to no one, to the sky, to the moon or whatever god was watching.”

Why her? Why him? Why the two people I actually gave a f**k about? Like couldn’t it have been a stranger? A

one–night mistake? A rumor that wasn’t true? But no. No. It had to be my best f*****g friend and the boy I

almost gave everything to.”

I rocked back and forth like I was five years old again, crying after scraping my knee. But this wasn’t a scrape. This was a full–body amputation of every last bit of trust I had left.

“I loved him,” I whispered. “Or I thought I did. I thought he was the one. He was supposed to be the one. But

he’s a f*****g jerk”

I laughed. It was a broken, wét sound.

“And Tasha. Oh my God, Tasha. My sister. My ride or die. My ‘if he breaks your heart, I’ll kill him myself‘

III

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The Pain Of Khoavind

friend. She said that to me. She f*****g said that. And then what? She turned around and gave him head in a

car? In a bedroom? In a broom closet? Did they f**k in our house? Was it on the couch where we watch

movies? Was it in my bed?! Oh God..”

I slapped my forehead. “Okay. No. No. Don’t spiral. Too late. Already spiraling. Already going full mental

breakdown Barbie.”

I sniffed. Rubbed my face again. Smudged makeup just… everywhere. I was a whole disaster movie. Tornado

in a dress. Hurricane in heels.

“What if I never trust anyone again?” I asked out loud, voice high and panicked and trembling. “What if this messed me up forever? What if I never believe anyone ever again and I turn into one of those cold, stone–faced girls with no emotions and a black turtleneck who just laughs when men say they love her and then stabs them with her eyes?”

1 hiccuped.

“I don’t want to be that girl.”

Another wave of sobs hit me.

“I just wanted to feel safe. That’s all I ever f*****g wanted. I just wanted to be loved and respected and

wanted in a way that didn’t make me feel like my body was a transaction. I didn’t want to be cool or hot or

easy. I just wanted someone to see me and say, ‘You’re enough even if you never take your clothes off.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my trembling hand.

“And instead, I got a boy who called me boring and a best friend who called me dramatic while she had his

d**k in her mouth.”

I choked.

“God. Why do I talk like this.”

I started laughing again, but it was the manic kind, like the cry was too deep and too sharp so it turned into a

giggle halfway through.

“I’m a mess. I’m a full disaster. I’m going to end up in someone’s group chat as a meme. ‘Girl loses it after pulling ex’s pants down.‘ I bet someone’s editing it right now with an Afrobeat track in the background. I bet Marcus is still inside trying to fix his underwear.”

I paused. The thought of him trying to yank his crusty briefs back into place made me snort through my

tears.

And for half a second, I felt okay.

Then the silence hit again. Heavy. Cold. Real.

And I whispered the worst part.

“I still loved tasha even if she hurt me”

I pressed my palms to my face, like I could physically push the thoughts away, but they just kept coming, crashing over me like ocean waves that refused to back off.

“She’s my best friend. She’s my best friend,” I sobbed, shaking my head like I couldn’t believe my own truth.” She was the one person who knew all of it. Every part.

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The am 07 Knowing

Every stupid little piece of me. She was there through my first heartbreak, my period cramps, my panic

attacks before school presentations, the time I thought I had a brain tumor just because I had a headache for three days.

She brought me cupcakes when my crush rejected me. She held my hair when I cried. We made stupid Tik Toks in pajamas and swore we’d live together forover in an apartment with a pink toaster and matching mugs.”

My throat clenched. My whole body trembled.

“She’s Tasha, for God’s sake. She knows the name I used to give my teddy bear. She knows my mom’s ringtone. She’s seen me ugly cry over celebrities and dance like a cracked–out giraffe in my room. I told her everything. Every stupid fear. Every fantasy. Every dream.”

Heaned back, head thudding against the wall behind me, eyes staring at the sky even though everything was

blurry and burning.

“And yeah, she messed up. She f****d up. She broke me in a way I didn’t think she ever could. But the worst part? The worst part isn’t even what she did. It’s that I still love her.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, let the tears fall sideways down my cheeks, sticky and hot and raw.

“Because love doesn’t just vanish. Not real love. It doesn’t dissolve just because someone stabbed you with it. And that’s the part that kills me. That I’m sitting here, shattered and humiliated and covered in my own. snot, and I still want her to come out here. I still want her to explain. I still want her to cry and say sorry and

mean it.”

Пlaughed bitterly.

“I’m the i***t who still wants the person who wrecked me to help clean it up.”

I wiped my face with both hands again, huffing out another broken breath as my chest rose and fell too fast to keep up with.

“She was supposed to be my person. The kind you call at 2 a.m. when the world feels like it’s ending. The

kind you never expect to hold the knife, let alone twist it. And she didn’t just twist it. She carved my name into it. She let me look her in the face, night after night, while she kept that secret tucked behind her tongue like

gum she couldn’t spit out.“.

My voice cracked again. My words started slurring together between sobs.

“I just..I don’t get it. Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t she come clean? If it was really just once, why didn’t

she fall at my feet the moment it happened? I would’ve been mad, yeah. I probably would’ve screamed and

broken things and ghosted her for a week. But I would’ve come back. I always come back.”

I stared straight ahead at nothing, chest aching like I’d been punched from the inside out.

“I would’ve forgiven her. Because she’s Tasha. And I loved her more than I loved any boy. More than I loved

any grade or dress or plan for the future. She was my home.”

Another sob clawed its way up my throat.

As I heard the front door creak open.

And soft footsteps behind me.

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375

The Pam Of Knowind

I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

I didn’t have to. The guilt was so thick in the air I could smell it. That mix of perfume, regret, and the weight of knowing you ruined something pure. She didn’t say anything at first. She just stood there.

Then her voice cracked, soft and shaking.

“Lyra…”

I didn’t move.

“Lyra, please,” she said, voice wobbling like her throat was made of glass. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t–I didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared. I didn’t want to lose you.”

I still didn’t look at her. My face was soaked. My hands were clenched. My heart felt like it was trying to escape through my ribs.

She stepped closer.

“I swear it didn’t mean anything,” she whispered. “He wasn’t you. He wasn’t even close. And I regretted it the second it happened. I’ve hated myself every day since.”

I let out a shaky breath.

And finally, finally I turned my head just a little.

Just enough to whisper:

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

The question slipped out like a wound – soft, bleeding, shaking, but still alive. And the silence that followed

was worse than any answer she could’ve given.

1

Tasha stood behind me, still, like if she moved too fast I’d vanish. Like she knew she was standing on the

edge of the last piece of us, and even one more lie would send it all crashing down.

“I wanted to,” she whispered, but her voice cracked again. “I wanted to so many times.”

I turned around fully, still on my knees, still wrecked, but now I was facing her and my face must’ve looked as

broken as I felt, because she flinched just seeing it.

“You wanted to?” I repeated, my voice rising as I wiped the snot off my lip with the back of my hand. “You

wanted to tell me? That’s your excuse? You wanted to but what? The words just refused to leave your mouth?

They got stuck in your throat behind the guilt and the fact that his c*m was still somewhere in your memory?

Her eyes widened.

I didn’t stop.