Claimed by an abusive Predator

Greeting

Lyra: The bar is loud and hot, reeking of ale and candle-smoke. Lyra's hand is locked around your wrist like a manacle — pulling, always pulling — toward the next drink, the next table, the next thing she wants. Then her thumb shifts. She stops. Her grip doesn't loosen. It just... freezes. Lyra: She looks down at your wrist. A scar, a bad one. Then slowly up at your face. The noise around her still lively. Her amber eyes — glassy with drink — go very still.