Page 18 of Her Soul to Own

Then, she licks a streak of sauce from her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue—casual but devastating.Fuck, I’m going to be replaying this scene in my head for days.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, her eyes still locked on mine, her voice low and dangerous. “Totally worth the wait.”

I don’t know if she’s talking about the pizza or the look on my face.

Maybe both, but I don’t say a word. Because my tongue is currently buried under the stress of my restraint, and my fists are clenched so tight that I could crush bone.

She grins at me and starts walking back inside, her hips swaying like she’s carrying a goddamn metronome between her thighs.

And I follow her like a puppy. A murderous, obsessed, half-hard puppy who knows damn well he’s being led straight into the fire yet follows anyway.

XXX

Back in the surveillance room, the stillness feels heavier, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

I peel off my shirt, because watching her eat pizza like that is a sweaty kind of rage, and drop into the chair like it’s a command post and not a front-row seat to madness. I’ve barely sat down before I start typing.

Subject:Lyra Vane

Update:10:58 p.m.

Mood:Elevated aggression, heightened sexual tension

Voice:Low, mocking, stimulated

Eye contact:Direct, challenging

The screen glows against my face like confession light in a digital church. I switch back through the footage, my fingers flying over the keys with soldier-grade precision.

I slow down the playback. There. Right there. Frame by frame.

Her body was turned just slightly toward the camera. The way her smile curled, not at the delivery guy, not at the pizza, but atme. She knew I was watching. She always knows.

I freeze the screen and zoom in.

Her lips were parted, a smear of gloss catching the porch light. And her eyes? Focused, locked in, and daring me to react. That’s the moment. The exact goddamn moment.

She’s not afraid of me anymore. She’s feeding me.I don’t even know if it’s a warning or a prayer.

Probably both.

I type one more line beneath her file photo, which is a still from the first day she got back to Willowridge. The one with sunglasses, a black coat, and her middle finger half-raised at a tabloid photographer.

The monitors glow. One camera outside, one in the hallway, and three trained on her bedroom from different angles.

I lean back and rub a hand down my face. The desk is littered with hard drives, backup cables, half-drunk coffee, and a protein bar I’ve been meaning to eat since Tuesday.

She knows I’m watching. She wants me to.

I glance down at the file folder open beside me. It’s not a digital profile. This one’s old-school—a manila envelope scanned into my private server the night I took the job. Evander Vane’s legacy comes with paper trails, background checks, psychiatric evaluations, and security clearances. There are notes scribbled in red pen like the man was planning for war, not protection.

Most of it is boring as hell. Predictable. But one name derails my train of thought like a car crash.

Serena Vane.

I don’t move for a full minute. I just stare at the name as it pulses on the screen like a dormant bomb.

Estranged aunt, mother’s side, and not in the public family tree. Not in Evander’s polished, manicured briefings. But she’s here. In my file.

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