Page 11 of Her Soul to Own

Well, I sure wasn’t expecting that. She thinks she won.

Cute.

But the feed doesn’t die.

It distorts, turning her into something raw and wild, blurred by defiance and the dripping wine. Her hair sticks to her cheek, and her lips curl in satisfaction. The red mess only makes her more vivid.

And I’m just sitting here, watching, and grinning like the twisted son of a bitch I am.

I should be mad. I should be writing up a report. Instead, I laugh. Low and dark. That private, dangerous kind of laugh you let out when something gets under your skin, and youlike it.

This girl. This spoiled, brilliant, rage-wrapped hellcat is trying to shake me. And it’s working.

She stands there a beat longer, poised in chaos, her eyes locked on the camera like she can see through it, straight through me.

And then she turns.

Hair swaying. Feet silent. Slip clinging. No more pretense of modesty.

She walks away like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just draw first blood.

And I sit there, staring at the red-smudged screen and grinning like a man who has just realized his prison might be the only thing worth staying in.

Because whatever game she’s playing is not one I plan to lose.

Outside my tiny window, the trees moan in the wind, and pine needles whip like warnings. Something darker than us stirs out there.

But inside, the real danger had already made its move.

And it’s not the thing in the woods. It’s me.

Silas Creed.

Chapter 3 – Lyra – Thorns and Petals

The thing about small towns is that they don’t forget. Not your name. Not your scandals. Not even what you wore last Sunday when you snuck into church five minutes late and sat in the back pew pretending to pray while thinking about revenge.

Downtown Willowridge is exactly as I remember it since childhood. It’s too clean, too quiet, and just passive-aggressive enough to make my blood itch. With white picket fences, hanging flower baskets, and that Stepford charm masking judgment so thick it might as well be on the welcome sign.

I swing open the door of the Willow Bean Café like I own the place, which, technically, I probably do. Dad’s investments are everywhere in this town, like tentacles in a very polite horror movie. I saunter to the counter, peel off my sunglasses just enough to make eye contact with the barista—he’s new, maybe nineteen, and trying hard not to look impressed—and order my usual: oat milk latte, extra hot, with one pump of vanilla. No whip. No bullshit.

While they work on it, I tap my nails against the counter and pretend not to notice the whispers doubling behind me. Once the drink lands on the pick-up bar, I grab it and pivot with a smile that saysfuck your judgment, and your Pinterest weddings toobefore strutting toward the corner booth.

I smile. Just enough to feed the rumor mill without giving anything away. I’ve always been good at that, looking like I’m in control while barely holding it together underneath. I look around, trying to find Zara amidst the crowd.

Silas was with me on the drive here. Sitting shotgun like he belonged there, like this town couldn’t touch him even if it tried. He didn’t come inside, of course not. That would’ve been too obvious. But I know he’s watching. Hehasto be.

And despite myself, I notice things I shouldn’t. I notice the way his dark brown hair is always cut just right, sharp and clean, with those streaks of gray at his temples, which only make him look more dangerous than old. He’s been here for more than a week now, and his hair hasn’t grown an inch. His skin is tan, calloused, and marked by scars on his hands and arms, like history carved into flesh. Not to mention those icy steel-blue eyes of his that are always on me. His forearms are veined, hands calloused—built for combat, not comfort or luxury. He’s a man who was made to protect. Or destroy. Probably both.

And yeah… he’s handsome. Fuck him for that.

Zara’s already seated with her hands curled around her cinnamon latte like it’s a lifeline. She’s wearing a cream sweater, her golden curls half-tucked into a messy bun that somehow makes her look more put together than anyone else in here. Always did.

We met in high school. We were co-captains of the cheer team, ruling the pep rallies and hallway politics like queens without crowns. Zara was the only one who could match my snark for snark and still talk me down when I wanted to torch the whole place to the ground. We weren’t just close; we were a package deal. One name rarely came without the other.

When it came time for college, there was never any doubt. NYU or bust. It wasn’t just a dream; it was theplan.We mapped it out like it was a campaign strategy: dorm room aesthetics down to the fairy lights and faux-fur throw pillows, a curated list of clubs we’d pretend to care about but never actually attend, and an unspoken vow to make New Yorkours.

She was more than just my roommate. She was my ride-or-die, my tequila-fueled therapist, the person who knew every version of my laugh and the exact tone my voice took when I was lying to myself.

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