Page 119 of Her Soul to Own

This time, her breath audibly hitches. Zara’s still lost in her phone, scrolling and sipping the remnants of her cocktail like she’s backstage at a fashion show instead of sandwiched between tension so thick that it could slice flesh.

Lyra adjusts slightly, just a minimal movement. But it’s enough for me to see how she’s struggling to stay composed and how her dress shifts ever so slightly as she fights the urge to grind down against the seat.

My pulse is steady, but I feel the satisfaction bloom deep and slow in my chest. It’s not because I’m torturing her. Not exactly. It’s because she’s letting me.

She could’ve said stop, but she didn’t. Not yet, at least.

I turn a little, pretending to stretch. Just enough to catch the full profile of her face.

She’s glowing.

Her cheeks are flushed, her lips are parted, and her hands are twitching in her lap like she doesn’t know what to do with them. Her eyes, however, are glassy and unfocused but sharp. Alive. And goddamn beautiful.

I don’t say a word. I just turn the dial back down to gentle pulses now. Enough to keep her burning.

When we reach Zara’s apartment complex, she finally lifts her head. “This is me,” she says brightly. “Unless you two are planning a threesome and forgot to tell me.”

Lyra laughs, but it’s strained and choked. “Good night,” she manages, her voice barely above a whisper.

Zara bounces out of the car, her heels clicking as she makes her way toward the front entrance. A moment later, the glass doors shut behind her, and the energy in the vehicle shifts.

It’s like dropping the mask at the end of a masquerade.

I look back at Lyra. There’s no mirror now. I look at her directly.

She’s biting her lip, not seductively but desperately. Her hands fist the edge of the seat as the vibrations hit a peak again, and her legs shake with the effort of keeping still.

I increase the setting.

Her head tips back. A moan catches in her throat but doesn’t escape as she clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut.

Every part of her is fighting.

And every part of me is loving it.

She’s restrained chaos—a goddess shackled in an ethereal glow. And I’m the one holding the key.

The driver’s still in the car. Otherwise, she would’ve unraveled already.

We pull away from Zara’s building, and the silence is only broken by the sharp intake of Zara’s breath. The driver doesn’t say a word. Smart man. He knows better than to ask questions when the air feels like it’s vibrating.

After a few torturous minutes of her moving around, clenching the seat, and massaging her thigh for some relief, the car finally pulls up to the estate. Gravel crunches beneath the car, and warm light spills out from the front porch.

“Give us a minute,” I tell the driver.

He nods and steps out, closing the door behind him with a softclick.

The moment it shuts, I turn in my seat, rising from the front and sliding into the back with her.

Lyra doesn’t move. She’s breathing hard, and her eyes meet mine, wide and dark and pleading, all without saying a single word.

Her legs are pressed together like her sanity depends on it. Her hands tremble in her lap, still holding on to decorum like it’s the last shield she has left.

I sit beside her. Not touching.

The remote is still in my hand.

She’s not just on edge. She’s living on it.

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