Page 121 of Her Soul to Own

I tuck the remote back into my jacket pocket and kiss her on the forehead.

Then, silently, I lift her into my arms. She doesn’t protest. She just curls into me, warm and soft, her lashes fluttering as she tries to catch her breath. She’s flushed and glowing, her body still humming from what I gave her. Every inch of her clings to me like she knows she belongs here, like she’s known it all along.

I carry her inside, up the stairs, and into her room. The house is quiet and dim, the only sound our shared breathing and the soft creak of each step beneath my feet. Her fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to me. As if letting go isn’t an option anymore.

In the hush of her room, I set her down gently on the bed. She gazes up at me, her eyes dazed and half-lidded, her lips parted like she still can’t believe what just happened. Her skin is flushed with heat, her thighs still trembling slightly. She looks like a dream in the low light, wrecked and radiant, completely mine.

I brush a strand of damp hair from her cheek and let my thumb linger along the curve of her jaw. She leans into the touch without hesitation. There’s a trust in her now, raw and unspoken, and it undoes me more than anything else ever could.

She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.

Chapter 32 – Lyra - Bloodlines and Broken Locks

It’s just past midnight, and I’m barefoot in the east wing, my robe brushing the floor as I stand outside my father’s locked study. The floor beneath me is marble and unforgiving, leeching the warmth right out of my bones. But I let it. I welcome it. Let it chill me to my core, just to feel something other than what’s whispering beneath my skin.

Last night still lingers in my body like a slow burn. I feel it every time I move, every stretch of a muscle, every clench of my thighs. Silas’s name isn’t on my lips, but it’s carved somewhere deeper. The memory of him, of the way he made me come undone with nothing but his voice and that damn remote, clings to my skin like perfume. No hands. No kisses. Just command, control, and exquisite torture. He didn’t even touch me.

And somehow, I’ve never felt more claimed.

But this isn’t about him. Not tonight. This is about another man. One with a different kind of power, a different kind of hold over me.

My father.

He used to come here every weekend without fail. Like clockwork. Always Friday nights, always in a tailored suit, and always with his phone glued to his hand like the world would fall apart if he didn’t keep it in his grip. He’d stay through Sunday, hold court at the long dining table, remind the staff how precise he liked his espresso, and then disappear back to the city before the house could exhale.

But he hasn’t been back in weeks. The last time I saw him, he was on the phone in this very hallway, whispering somethingin a language I only half-recognized. That was… what? A month ago? Longer? And since then, there’s been radio silence. No calls, no texts, and no cryptic voice notes. Just voicemail and shadows.

It’s not like him.

Not even close.

And maybe that’s what scares me. Because if he’s not checking in, not controlling, and not planning, then something’s wrong. Or he’s hiding. And I need to know which.

I reach into the pocket of my robe and pull out the key. It’s old, brass, and heavy—the kind of thing that looks like it belongs in a haunted novel. The teeth of the key are sharp and uneven, like they were cut by hand. Zara passed it to me with a look that said she didn’t want to be involved but couldn’t stop herself.

“Elijah gave it to me,” she said quietly, almost guiltily. “He found it in one of Isola’s old boxes. He said your dad never changed the locks on the study and said that’s what scared her the most.”

Isola. My mother. Dead and still managing to haunt the estate with her absence.

I tighten my fingers around the key. My heart’s racing, but my face stays calm. Years of practice.

My father built this house with secrets in the foundation and secrets woven into every inch of mahogany and marble. This study, this locked door, was always off-limits. Even as a kid, I was never allowed inside. It was his sanctuary. His war room. His place to scheme and lie and make the world kneel.

Tonight, I’m done obeying rules made by men who vanished when shit got too real.

I slide the key into the lock. The metal clicks.

The sound is soft. Final.

Like something sacred just ended.

The door creaks open with a kind of slow resistance. The study breathes at me, stale cigar smoke, expensive ink, and dust thick with secrets. It smells like power and fear, legacy and loss. The kind of room men build to feel important.

The fireplace is long dead, and the ashtray beside it still holds a half-burned Cuban, like someone walked out mid-deal and never came back. Books line the walls, with titles about war strategy, economic dominance, and hollow-ass philosophy written by men who never learned how to say sorry. There are no fiction books. No joy. Just control.

The desk is spotless. Not clean… sterile. Wiped like someone was expecting an audit. A statement of guilt by omission.

I cross the room slowly, my bare feet whispering against the rug. My fingers brush the surface of the desk. It’s too polished, too empty. My stomach twists.

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