Page 118 of Her Soul to Own

But I don’t. Because I’m not here for vengeance. Not yet.

I’m here for evidence.

Power isn’t in the explosion. It’s in the darkness that comes before it.

So I slip away, my steps soft as breath. My heart’s a war drum in my chest, and the orchids close gently behind me like velvet curtains after a final act.

They never even knew I was there. But they’ll feel me soon because I’m done playing by the script, and I’ve got everything I need. I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours as my bare feet carry me back through the maze of string lights and curated chaos, adrenaline still thrumming beneath my skin. I move like a ghost—silent, unseen, and absolutely done with this glittering charade.

I pull out my phone, my thumbs flying over the screen.

To Zara, I send:We can leave now. I’ve got what I came for.And then to Silas, I say:Exit secured. Ghost recon complete.

I don’t add any emojis. Just coded honesty.

I’m almost to the valet loop when I spot Zara leaning against a sculptural light fixture like she’s waiting for a red-carpet interview. She’s got a stolen cocktail in one hand and zero intention of pretending she belongs to anything but herself.

“Nice timing,” I say, sliding up beside her. “Planning to return that glass?”

She snorts, holding it up like a trophy. “Please. She can afford to lose one overpriced goblet. Consider it emotional damages.”

I laugh, really laugh. For the first time in days, it feels good to have the upper hand. “You’re an icon.”

Zara smirks. “Obviously.”

We walk together toward the idling SUV, a familiar black beast parked under a halo of LED palm trees. She slides in first, still sipping from her loot, and I follow, smoothing my dress, my pulse steadying.

Then, I look up. Silas is already in the front passenger seat, and he’s turned slightly in his seat.

Our eyes meet, and everything else disappears.

Chapter 31 – Silas – Wrath and Worship

The SUV hums beneath us, sleek and silent as it glides through the dark. I sit in the front passenger seat, my body relaxed but my focus razor-sharp. One hand rests lazily on my thigh while the other wraps around a small black remote. It’s unmarked and unassuming. But tonight, it might as well be the detonator to something nuclear.

She’s sitting in the backseat.

Lyra Vane, in a shining dress that looks like it was painted onto her skin with a brush dipped in sin. Her legs are crossed too tightly, her shoulders pinned straight like she’s balancing something breakable. But I know that look. That stillness is control she’s barely holding onto.

Zara is next to her, blissfully unaware. She’s rambling about something, either about NFT wellness coaches or another man in her DMs who thinks breathwork can fix narcissism. Whatever it is, it’s just noise to me because my focus is behind me, radiating heat and breath.

I flick the remote.

Just once. On low setting.

Lyra’s reaction is microscopic but unmistakable to me. Her lips part, and her eyelids flutter. Her grip on the seat tenses as if her entire nervous system is being jolted awake.

She doesn’t move otherwise and doesn’t make a sound.

But I can feel her unraveling already. The anticipation must have made her wet, and the very thought of that makes me hard. Fuck, I want to see this woman screaming and begging.

I watch her in the rearview mirror, angling myself just so I can see the barest shift in her jawline and the soft tremor in her breath. She’s clenching her thighs and probably grinding her teeth behind her flawless lipstick. Every muscle of hers is taut beneath her dress, and she knows I’m watching.

“Everything okay back there?” I ask, my voice as smooth as aged whiskey and layered with mock concern.

Her eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror. “Peachy,” she answers, but it comes out like a dare.

With a grin, I dial it up another notch.

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