Ruined By My Biker Stepbrother

"You're useless to me, Lyra."

Her mother's voice was sharp and tired, like she'd said these words too many times already and Lyra was just another problem she didn't want to deal with.

The word hit harder than the slap she'd given her earlier because Lyra could still feel the sting burning on her cheek, warm and humiliating.

She stood in the middle of the living room with her bag at her feet, her hands shaking even though she tried not to show it. The house smelled of stale alcohol. It had always smelled like that, nothing about this place had ever felt like home.

"You're grown now," her mother continued, folding her arms like she was proud of herself. "Other girls your age know how to help their mothers. But you? You act like a saint. You don't use what you have to get what you want."

Lyra swallowed hard, her throat felt tight.

"I'm not sleeping with men for money," she said, her voice cracking even though she hated that it did. "I won't do that."

Her mother laughed, it was short and bitter, like Lyra had told a joke she'd heard before.

"Then what good are you to me?" she snapped. "You don't bring money. You don't help. You don't listen."

Lyra's chest tightened, she already knew what was coming, but it still hurt hearing it. Her mother stepped closer, her arms still crossed, there was a coldness in her eyes Lyra had seen her whole life, but tonight it felt different.

"Go find people that will take care of you." she said. "Or better yet, go look for your useless father or that precious stepbrother of yours. Let them take care of you. I'm tired of doing it."

Lyra stared at her, hoping, praying that she'd take it back, that she'd sigh and tell her to sit down, that she'd say she didn't mean it. But she didn't.

Her jaw set, her hands dropped to her sides.

"Leave this house if you won't do what I want," she added. "Tonight."

Lyra didn't move, her feet felt glued to the floor.

"Now, Lyra."

That's when she knew her mother meant it, she bent down and picked up her bag. Her fingers were numb, and her face still burned where her mother had hit her, but she didn't touch it. She didn't want to give her the satisfaction, she walked to the door without looking back, her mother didn't say goodbye, she didn't say anything at all, and that's how Lyra left New York.

With a bag, a burning face, and nowhere to go except people she barely knew.

The plane touched down hard, and the jolt ran straight through Lyra's body, snapping her fully awake. She gripped the armrest and let out a slow breath as the wheels screeched against the runway. Her stomach twisted. Her head pounded from lack of sleep.

Italy.

She'd never been this far from home before, and the thought sat heavy in her chest as she stood up and pulled her bag from the overhead compartment. Her legs felt stiff, her body ached, and her heart wouldn't stop racing.

People pushed past her in the aisle, already pulling out their phones, already moving like they knew exactly where they were going. She didn't.

She shuffled forward with the crowd, her bag clutched tight against her chest. The airport smelled like coffee and cleaning products. Everything was louder here, the voices around her blurred together in a language she only half understood. She stepped outside into the warm air and stopped for a second, just breathing.

It was different here, the sky looked bigger. The sun felt heavier. The buildings in the distance were old and weathered, like they'd been standing for centuries and didn't care about anything or anyone.

She dragged her suitcase behind her, the wheels rattling over the pavement as she stepped into the chaos of taxis and drivers calling out destinations in Italian, a few of them looked at her, waiting to see if she'd wave them over.

She clutched the folded paper in her hand. It was wrinkled and soft from how many times she'd opened it on the flight, checking and rechecking the address like it might disappear.

An address. The only thing her mother had given her before throwing her out, she approached one of the cabs and held the paper out. The driver glanced at it, nodded, and waved her in. She climbed into the back seat and pulled her suitcase in after her. The door slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life.

He pulled into traffic without saying a word, weaving through narrow roads lined with buildings that looked like they'd been here longer than she'd been alive, the streets were tight, cars honked and everything felt close and crowded.

She stared out the window the entire time, watching the city blur past. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass, tired eyes, pale lips, hair pulled into a messy knot. She looked like someone who'd run out of options. Because she had.

The cab turned down a quieter road, the buildings here were spaced farther apart, there were trees, gates. Walls that hid whatever was behind them. Her stomach twisted again.

The driver slowed down and pulled to a stop in front of a tall iron gate. He said something in Italian she didn't catch, then pointed. She nodded and paid him with the cash she had. Her hands shook as she counted it out.

He drove off as soon as she closed the door. She stood there for a moment, staring at the gate. It was black and heavy, taller than her. Beyond it, she could see a stone path leading up to a house. The kind of house that didn't look warm or welcoming. Just big, solid and expensive. This was it.

She took a breath and pushed the gate open. It creaked as it swung inward. The path was lined with gravel. Her suitcase wheels caught on the stones, making noise with every step. She kept her head down, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

The house loomed ahead of her and she stopped at the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance. Her hand tightened around the handle of her suitcase, she didn't know who was going to answer this door, she didn't know if they'd even let her in. But she was here now and she had nowhere else to go.