Guarding the Virgin

Chapter 14

Ashton’s POV

Something was wrong with Lyra.

I'd been watching her for days now—not just with the vigilance of a bodyguard, but with the desperate attention of a man who couldn't stop thinking about the woman he'd touched. Tasted. Ruined.

She was different. Pale in a way that makeup couldn't hide. Exhausted despite sleeping full nights. I'd seen her rush to the bathroom twice after morning practice, returning with red-rimmed eyes and a forced smile that fooled no one. She barely ate—pushed food around her plate, turned green at the smell of coffee, excused herself when teammates ordered greasy pizza after games.

I watched her refuse a bagel yesterday. Lyra, who used to demolish everything in sight after a hard practice. She'd taken one look at it, pressed her hand to her mouth, and muttered something about not being hungry.

And there was something else. A gesture so small I almost missed it at first.

Her hand kept drifting to her stomach. Not clutching it in pain, just... resting there. Protective. Unconscious. Like she was guarding something precious without realizing she was doing it. I'd caught her doing it three times yesterday alone—during practice, in the hallway, standing by the vending machines while Angel bought snacks.

I told myself I was imagining things. Projecting. She was stressed—god knows she had enough reasons to be. The whispers around campus. The tension between us. The weight of secrets neither of us could share.

But the suspicion took root and wouldn't let go.

It grew stronger every time she flinched at a strong smell. Every time she excused herself mid-conversation with that hollow look in her eyes. Every time I caught her staring at nothing, her hand pressed flat against her abdomen like she was holding herself together.

She missed practice on Thursday.

No message. No explanation. Just an empty spot at the boards where she should be standing with her clipboard. The ice felt wrong without her there. The whole rink felt wrong—too quiet despite the noise, too empty despite being full of players.

I ran the drills on autopilot, my eyes constantly drifting to that empty spot. Where was she? Was she sick? Was she hurt? Had something happened?

The team noticed. They exchanged glances, whispered questions I pretended not to hear. "Where's Lyra?" "Is she okay?" "Maybe she's finally sick of watching Coach's ugly face." Nervous laughter that died quickly when I shot them a look.

Nate noticed too—I caught him smirking, whispering something to a teammate, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. Like her absence was some kind of victory for him. It took every ounce of control not to break his jaw right there on the ice. My hands clenched around my whistle until the plastic bit into my palm, leaving crescent marks I'd find later.

After practice, I drove to her dorm.

I told myself I was just checking on her. Making sure she was safe. Doing my job. Fulfilling my duty to Kian.

I knew it was a lie.

The hallway was quiet. Most students were still in afternoon classes or at the dining hall. I knocked on her door and got no answer. Knocked again. Nothing.

The door was unlocked.

I should have left. Should have turned around and walked away and respected her privacy and the distance we'd agreed to maintain. But something pulled me forward—worry, suspicion, the desperate need to know if what I feared was true.

The room was empty. Both beds made, books stacked neatly on desks, no sign of either Lyra or Angel. Late afternoon light filtered through half-closed blinds, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow.

I stood in the middle of the room, feeling like an intruder. Feeling like a man about to discover something that would change everything.

The bathroom door was open.

Something caught my eye. A small plastic stick sitting on top of the trash, poorly hidden beneath a crumpled tissue. White plastic. Pink lines.

My feet carried me forward before my brain could stop them.

I picked it up.

Two pink lines. Positive.

The world went silent.

My blood ran cold, then hot, then cold again. The test trembled in my grip—no, my hands were trembling. Shaking in a way they hadn't since my first kill twenty years ago. I'd faced down armed men without flinching. I'd taken bullets and kept moving. I'd done things that would make most people vomit.

And now I was standing in a college dorm bathroom, shaking like a leaf because of two pink lines on a plastic stick.

Pregnant. Someone in this room was pregnant.

But Angel had a boyfriend, didn't she? Or at least some hookups. College girls had active social lives. The test could be hers. It could be a scare, a false positive, something that had nothing to do with me or Lyra or that night in my truck when I lost control completely.

I tried to make myself believe it. Tried to convince myself this wasn't what it looked like.

But I kept seeing Lyra's hand on her stomach. The morning sickness she blamed on stress. The way she couldn't stand the smell of coffee anymore. The exhaustion carved into her face despite full nights of sleep. The way she'd looked at me from across the rink yesterday—not with anger or desire, but with something that looked almost like fear.

I set the test back in the trash with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Covered it with the tissue exactly as I'd found it. Stepped out of the bathroom and stood in the middle of the empty room, my heart slamming against my ribs.

If she was pregnant—if it was mine—

I couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't let myself go there. Not yet. Not until I knew for certain.

My phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with Kian's name. My chest tightened. One ring. Two. Three. Each second stretched longer than the last as I scrambled to remember what I could say and what had to stay hidden.

I answered on autopilot. "Yeah."

"The enemy is getting bolder." No greeting. Kian never wasted words. "The leech is still feeding them information. We're running out of time, Ashton. I need you to be focused."

I stared at the wall, barely processing his words. All I could see was two pink lines. All I could think about was what they might mean.

"I'm focused."

"Are you?" A pause. Kian's silences were always more dangerous than his words. "Because something feels off. You sound distracted."

Distracted. If he only knew.

"I'm fine." I forced steel into my voice. "Lyra's fine. Everything is under control."

The lie tasted like ash. Like betrayal. Like the destruction of everything I owed to the man on the other end of this call.

Kian was silent for a long moment. I could feel him weighing my words, searching for cracks in my composure. Fifteen years of loyalty, and I was lying to him. Again.

"Find the leech," he said finally. "Protect my daughter. That's all that matters."

He hung up.

I stood in the empty dorm room, phone pressed against my ear, listening to dead air. The pregnancy test sat in the bathroom trash like a ticking bomb. Kian's words echoed in my head like a death sentence.

Protect my daughter.

What if I'd done the opposite? What if protecting her was no longer possible because I'd already destroyed her? What if, in one reckless night, I'd created a situation that could get us both killed?

I thought about Kian's face when he found out. The betrayal. The rage. The cold, methodical violence that would follow. He wouldn't just kill me—he'd make it slow. Make it hurt. And I would deserve every second of it.

But Lyra... what would happen to her?

I left the room and closed the door behind me, but I couldn't close off the growing certainty that nothing would ever be under control again.

If that test was Lyra's—if she was carrying my child—then I hadn't just crossed a line.

I'd blown up the entire world. And I had no idea how to put the pieces back together.