Page 17 of Her Soul to Own

This girl has no idea what it’s like to want and not take. To crave and cage the craving. To watch every fucking detail soundlessly while pretending you’re not already halfway feral.

She just sits on her bed scrolling on her phone for the longest time. I almost get bored, but then, the front gate buzzes.

I check the motion alert, external cam, and driveway.Pizza delivery.Ordered under an alias she’s used online before: “Ellie May.” Cute. Obvious. Sloppy.

I switch to her bedroom cam.

She’s still in the crimson lace and wearing some lip gloss now. Her perked-up nipples are visible even from here. Her hair’s down and wild, a halo of madness framing that smug, dangerous face. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Hell, she probably practiced it.

“She’s testing how far the leash stretches,” I mutter, already standing.

She walks through the hallway in no damn hurry, the nightgown clinging to her hips and riding up with every step. She pauses by the mirror, of course she does, and adjusts her hair like she’s stepping out onto a runway instead of answering a fucking pizza delivery.

I move fast, cutting through the surveillance hub and into the main corridor. My boots are silent against the floor, but my pulse is thunder. I hit the intercom as I go, my voice tight.

“Step away from the house.”

The driver jumps. I see him through the front-facing hall camera now on my phone. The poor guy’s barely nineteen, with his cheeks flushed crimson and eyes wide as he tries not to look at Lyra’s body. The kid doesn’t know where to rest his gaze, but every direction is dangerous.

Can’t even blame him.

She’s leaning against the doorframe like it’s a stripper pole. The strap has slipped off one shoulder, and her cleavage is a full damn invitation. Her smile is all teeth and fire.

“You’re not the usual guy,” she says, coy as hell, like she’s not lighting matches inside a powder keg.

“Uh—n-no, ma’am. First night on the route,” the kid stammers, clutching the pizza like it might shield him.

I emerge at the end of the corridor. Her figure is small from this distance, but I don’t need to be close to feel the fury rising in my chest.

This isn’t about pizza. It’s about me. And the fact that it’s working.

My voice comes out harsher than I intend when I say, “We have your license plate. Leave. Now.”

The driver nearly drops the pizza as he backs away.

The look on Lyra’s face—rage, satisfaction, and heat—when she hears me is everything.

And I’m fucking livid, which means she’s winning.

My eyes find the boy like targeting lasers. I’m in a black shirt and tactical pants. Nothing soft.

He stumbles back, putting the pizza on the steps and muttering something that sounds like a prayer before bolting. He doesn’t even try to close the door behind him.

But Lyra?

She steps forward, bends down with the kind of elegance that only comes from knowing people are always watching, and picks up the pizza box like it’s a trophy she’s been waiting to claim. There’s nothing rushed about it. Every movement is smooth and practiced, like she’s performing for an audience.

Then, she turns.

And I swear, she looks medeadin the eye as she flips the box open right there on the damn doorstep. The lid lifts like an invitation, steam unfurling between us in slow, lazy curls, carrying the scent of melted cheese and something almost sinful. Her gaze doesn’t waver, not once, as she slips her hand inside.

She moves like she’s reaching into something far more intimate than cardboard and mozzarella. Her fingers linger, caressing the edge of a slice like it might moan if she touches it wrong. Then, she lifts it out, slow and heavy, strings of cheese stretching like they don’t want to let go.

The slice drips in her hand, a mix of grease, heat, and defiance.

She bites her lips as she raises the slice to her mouth, which parts with that same unhurried confidence. It’s not hunger. It’s something darker. Bolder. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

Her teeth sink in, and she chews, slow and thoughtful, like she’s savoring more than just the food.

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