Page 135 of Her Soul to Own

He claws for his sidearm. I slam his wrist into the wall until bones snap, then ram my forearm into his throat, pinning him. His eyes bulge as he chokes, and my free hand jerks the blade across his throat, opening him wide. Blood sprays out in a violent gush, hot and thick, covering both of us.

His body convulses, twitches, then falls limp beneath me.

The only sound left is my own ragged breathing.

I don’t hesitate. I scoop Lyra up from the blood-slick floor. Her breathing’s shallow, her pulse fluttering erratically under my fingers. Her skin is freezing and damp, her pupils blown from whatever chemical cocktail they pumped into her. She mumbles something unintelligible, barely aware.

“I’ve got you, baby,” I whisper through clenched teeth. “You’re safe now.”

She’s light in my arms.

I carry her to the panic room entrance in the basement, my own blood mixing with hers. My hand slams against the biometric scanner, and the steel door hisses open. The second it seals behind us, I lower her gently onto the padded bench, my chest still heaving with barely contained fury.

She doesn’t even know she almost died. But I do. And I’ll never fucking forget it.

I look at her one last time, fragile and unconscious, and then I turn and step back out.

I rip the bodycam off the dead mercenary’s helmet, its blinking light mocking me. It’s still transmitting. Still streaming.

“Noah,” I bark into my earpiece. “Hack the stream. Get me the full feed.”

“Already patching in,” Noah’s voice crackles back. “You’re not gonna like this.”

Data floods the panic room’s monitor. I scroll through, my rage boiling higher with every frame. The feed replays their mission briefing. Audio and video, clear as day.

“Secure asset with minimal damage. Evacuate to Blackridge.”

The designation flashes across the HUD. Asset: Lyra Vane. Ordered by: E.V.

Evander. That sick bastard.

He doesn’t want her dead. He wants her hidden, voiceless, owned.

What kind of a father treats his own daughter like that? Right, the kind who killed his own wife.

The panic room is filled with mechanical beeps as I watch the order play again. My hands tremble with the urge to destroy something.

Lyra stirs beside me, groaning softly as she fights through the drug’s haze. Her eyelids flutter, struggling to focus. She looks so small and vulnerable, but even half-conscious, she’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.

“Was it him?” she whispers, her voice hoarse and barely audible.

I swallow hard, my jaw locking and my rage flaring so hot that I can barely contain it. I nod. “He sent them,” I say, my voice like broken glass. “Your father tried to steal you.”

Her breath hitches, and that’s when she breaks. The scream that tears from her throat rips through the sealed panic room like a bomb detonating inside her chest. She thrashes,shoving herself away from me and stumbling to her feet, her arms flailing as she tries to find something, anything, to destroy. She grabs a nearby tray and hurls it at the wall, the metal crashing and sparks flying. She claws at her own skin like she’s trying to tear the rage out of her body.

I move closer, my own body screaming in pain, but none of it matters. Watching her unravel guts me more than any blade ever could. She’s not just breaking. She’s shattering, and all I want is to take every shard and hold them together for her.

“Lyra,” I whisper, my voice raw. She doesn’t hear me. She punches the wall, her fists splitting open, blood streaking down her fingers.

“WHY?! Why would he—”

I can’t answer. Because I don’t have any words that will take away the betrayal poisoning her veins. All I have are my arms. My body. My vow.

I pull her to me, locking my arms around her even as she fights me at first, her fists pounding weakly against my chest and her sobs tearing from her throat in violent waves. She struggles, but I don’t let go. I tighten my grip, wrapping myself around her like a fortress. Her tears soak my shirt, and her nails dig into my skin, drawing blood, but I don’t care. I’ll bleed for her a thousand times over.

I hold her tighter, whispering into her hair as her cries start to slow, her body trembling violently in my arms. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

I’ve never wanted to protect anyone like this. Never in my life. Not in warzones, not in black ops, not in all the years I’ve stared death in the face. I’ve never felt this savage and desperate need to shelter someone from a world hellbent on destroying them. She’s under my skin, in my bloodstream, and a part of me I can’t separate from anymore. She’s everything.

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