Page 10 of Her Soul to Own

The rest of the day drags on without drama, which should be a win in my line of work, but instead, it feels like waiting for a tripwire to snap. Lyra doesn’t leave the house, doesn’t throw tantrums, and doesn’t even breathe in my direction. Which, frankly, is more terrifying than her storming around in silk robes and swearing like a drunk heiress in a scandalous memoir.

Evander is off playing corporate overlord. No check-ins or barking orders. Just me and this goddamn estate that’s too peaceful, too polished, and smells faintly like old money and moral decay. I spend the afternoon fine-tuning surveillance feeds, syncing motion alerts to my phone, and memorizing the patterns of her footsteps upstairs. They’re light when she’s thinking, sharp when she’s pissed, and dangerously silent when she’s plotting.

And tonight? She’s plotting. I know it before she even steps into frame.

It’s after midnight when the central hallway camera picks up movement. I don’t hear her. Ifeelher. It’s like the air gets tighter before a storm, or the static of something wicked charging up your body.

And then there she is, wearing a satin slip that’s barely a whisper against her skin. It’s the kind of thing that sayslook without touching and pay the price. It clings to her like it was tailored by sin itself, cut high at the thighs, low across her chest, and revealing her breasts in two perfect circles. Her ass looks peachy in that slip, and the straps are so thin that they could snap if she blinked too hard.

She didn’t just throw this on. This was a calculated wardrobe choice. She planned this.

Her dark auburn hair, thick and slightly damp from the shower, is left loose tonight, cascading over her shoulders in wild, defiant waves like a lioness mid-prowl. That rebellious ponytail she was wearing this morning is gone. Now there’s no shield. Just satin, skin, and war in her eyes.

Those eyes, light brown, wide and sharp, catch the lens like theyknow. Like they’re waiting to see how far I’ll go before I flinch. Her porcelain skin glows under the dim sconces, impossibly smooth, with the faintest flush across her collarbones. She always flushes when emotional. Or turned on.A scar curves along her shoulder, faint but visible. It’s a tiny imperfection she never tries to hide. And the beauty mark at the corner of her jaw? Fucking lethal.

Earlier tonight, she spent far too long in the bathroom. Long enough to raise red flags. Long enough to make most agents check the cam feed.

I didn’t.

She took a change of clothes in with her, which meant she was staging something, not cracking. And besides, the camera in the bathroom is for emergencies. I’m not a goddamn pervert, no matter how much of a bastard I am.

And now she’s walking like a challenge wrapped in satin, slow and smooth and deadly.

Her movements are performed.

She knows where the cameras are. She knows wheremyeyes are.

And she’s putting on a goddamn show.

I should be pissed. Furious. This is a provocation, plain and simple. Earlier, she screamed about violation and stormed in like a hurricane with a superiority complex. Now, she’s using the same cameras she cursed, like they’re a stage.

But I’m not angry.

I’m intrigued. And hard.

And that’s worse.

She moves like she’s testing the leash, seeing how far she can yank before it snaps back. And me? I’m the poor bastard holding it and pretending the collar isn’t already half around my own throat.

She steps directly in front of the central lens, stops, and looks straight into it.

Then, she raises a glass of red wine.

The shit’s crimson.Planned.The color of blood, sex, and a really expensive scandal. She lifts the glass slowly, like a toastto war. And smiles. Barely. Just enough to sayI know you’re watching me, bastard.

Then comes the kicker.

Her voice comes through, low and venom-sweet. “Still watching, creep?”

God help me.

I don’t even breathe.

“Always,” I whisper. Not into the mic. Not to her. Just to myself. To the damn machine that’s as much mine now as she is.

And then,she throws it.

The wine glass flies toward the camera in a red arc of rebellion. It shatters against the lens with a sharp, satisfying crack, crimson splattering across the feed like a murder scene. The camera glitches, flashes, and adjusts. Then, the auto-cleaners kick in.

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