Page 22 of Her Soul to Own

He doesn’t speak for a full five seconds. He just stares straight ahead. And then, he finally replies, “Only the ones I didn’t make fast enough.”

I stare at him. His profile is sharp, too defined for comfort, like God took a chisel to his jawline and said, “Make them suffer.” His arms rest across his thighs, and his hands—those veined, calloused things—flex like he’s remembering something painful.

Then he turns to look at me. There’s no camera lens between us. No grainy surveillance feed buffering the intensity. Just him, flesh and breath and shadow, in this space that suddenly feels too small and too thin to contain whatever this is.

The fog has lifted, but somehow, he’s still a phantom. A presence I can’t name, can’t touch, but feel with every nerve lit and trembling.

His eyes meet mine, direct, quiet, and devastating.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says in a low voice. “But somehow, you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

And just like that, something inside me stills.

For the first time in days, maybe years, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I don’t feel like I’m just a role I’ve rehearsed to exhaustion.

I feel seen. And it terrifies me.

I’m painfully aware of everything in the small space: the creak of the old wood beneath us, the dampness in the air, and the heat radiating off his body like he’s built from some kind of living furnace.

I shift again, pretending it’s for comfort, but really, it’s because he’s soclose. He’s not touching or invading my space. He’s justthere, like a storm cloud looming with perfect posture and black ops training.

“Nice of you to drop by,” I say, twisting my hair into a lazy bun. “You stalking all my secret spots now, or is this just a creepy coincidence?”

Silas doesn’t blink or smirk. He’s maddeningly unreadable, like every thought is filed behind reinforced steel and years of military clearance.

“You left the perimeter,” he finally says.

“Jesus.” I laugh, short and bitter. “I leftmyhouse.”

“You left the surveillance zone.”

“Oh no. Not the sacred surveillance zone,” I mock, widening my eyes. “I didn’t realize I needed permission to fuckingbreathewithout a camera in my face.”

His gaze sharpens. “If you want to breathe, Vane, you should stop flirting with threats.”

My pulse skips. There it is. That edge in his voice that both pisses me off and does terrible, shameful things to my lower region.

“You think I’m flirting?” I scoff, heat crawling up my neck. “Withyou?”

“I think you’re pushing boundaries,” he says, his voice flat. “And watching to see who bites.”

“Wow. Psychology degreeandbiceps. I’m impressed.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. He just shifts slightly, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest. And I hate how my eyes follow the movement like a goddamn groupie. Fuck, this man is handsome.

“I used to come here when I wanted to disappear,” I say abruptly, turning away. “Back before everything changed. Back when all this silence didn’t feel like punishment.”

Silas doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He just listens, which makes me hate him a little less.

“I’d sit up here with my mom,” I go on, quieter now. “She smelled like wildflowers and chamomile. She told me stories about this life she wanted in Paris—a life with music and a bookstore with a spiral staircase.”

Silas shifts again, still silent.

“She never got any of it,” I whisper. “Just a rich husband who stopped loving her the second she got sick.”

I hear the slight catch in his breath, the first crack in that impenetrable calm.

“She was already halfway gone before the cancer,” I add, glancing down at the journal between us, tears pooling in my eyes. “And when she died, I wasn’t even with her. She was in Paris. I guess, in a way, it’s lucky she got to die in a place she loved so much.”

---