Page 109 of Her Soul to Own

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you? My perfect little slut,” I say as I push in deep. “Letting me fuck your ass. Letting me own you like this. My hole. My body.Mine.”

She nods, her whole body trembling beneath me as she swallows every filthy word like it feeds her. Sweat beads on her back and along her neck, her skin glistening in the soft light like marble on the edge of ruin.

And fuck, I mean to wait. I plan to hold her at the brink, to keep her dangling until I finish. But the sight of her, so wrecked and willing, undoes every last scrap of control I have left.

I work her clit harder now, the way I know she likes—tight little circles with just the right pressure. And within moments, her body snaps. She jerks forward, shoving her ass back hard against my hips, her fingers scrabbling at the carpet as she comes, spasming and breathless, all the elegant walls she carries falling away.

And then she says it. One word.

“Yours.”

That word detonates inside me.

And I lose control.

I grip her hips tight enough to bruise, and I begin slamming into her in a raw, guttural rhythm, chasing the end like it’s salvation—grunting, my teeth clenched, my breath a growl behind my teeth. Her body grips me like a goddamn vice,slick and molten, and I know I won’t last—I can’t. The heat, the tightness, the goddamnclaimingof her, it all burns up through my spine like fire.

The orgasm hits me like a blackout—violent, endless, soul-ripping.

I pull out at the last second, just in time to see my cum spill across her back and ass in thick, hot streaks, ribbons and droplets painting her skin like she’s my canvas. It runs down the tight pucker of her entrance and across the curve of her ass, slicking her like I’ve marked my territory. Like I’ve left a fucking signature.

When the haze begins to clear, and my breath returns to my lungs, I take inthe sight of her, trembling, panting, and somine.

Lyra slowlylowers herself to her stomach with a grace that’s almost obscene, her shoulders soft, her thighs still twitching, and her body humming with aftershocks. She turns her head and gives me a lazy, satisfied smirk.

“Clean me up,” she rasps, her voice smug and regal-sounding and utterly wrecked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, already reaching for the towel. I gladly obey, wipe her down gently, then discard the towel and let my hands roam her hips and back, massaging slowly and sweetly. Worshipful again and gentle, now that the storm has passed.

As I work her body, I whisper to her. I kiss every inch of her skin, my mouth reverent and slow.

She closes her eyes at times, and I see it, the little smile she tries to hide and the way she swallows emotion so deep that it glimmers behind her lashes. Like maybe no one has ever tended to her after, and she doesn’t even know she can be cherished after being wrecked.

No man has ever done this for her before. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.

And I don’tfight the swell of pride in my chest. I don’twant to fight it.

Because she deserves this.

Because she is mine.

Chapter 28 – Lyra - The Siren and the Scythe

I’m still catching my breath as we leave the study. Silas stays close behind, like a shadow. My legs and ass ache in the best way, my skin is flushed from sex and power, and I’m wearing that reckless smile I save for moments like these, when I feel not just seen but owned in the best goddamn way.

I tell him I’m hungry, because I am. I’m ravished in every sense.

He leans against the wall, a lazy grin playing at the corners of his mouth like he’s picturing what we just did on that carpet. “I'll tell the chef to make your favorite pasta,” he says, his voice still thick with something deeper than satisfaction.

I arch a brow, smirking. “But first, we find the perfect wine.”

So we head down into the cellar—our private, opulent dungeon carved beneath the estate. It smells like old oak and buried secrets down there. He’s already halfway down the stone steps when I notice him pause. He’s frozen in front of a shelf stacked with dusty vintages, his jaw tense and eyes wide.

I follow his gaze.

He’s staring at a bottle from my mother’s private reserve. The label is faded but unmistakable.

I reach for it slowly. “This one.”

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