Page 23 of Her Soul to Own

The air shifts, and Silas’s eyes look like he’s in pain. Maybe he’s experienced something similar.

“Your father’s an asshole,” Silas says suddenly.

I blink, caught off guard by the bluntness.

“He’s a powerful asshole,” I correct.

“Same thing.”

I glance at him. He’s not wearing the covering of placidity. Not entirely. His jaw is still tight, but his eyes have lost some of that tactical detachment. There’s something else there now. Somethingreal. And for a second, I forget to be angry.

“You ever lost anyone?” I ask.

He meets my eyes. “Yes.”

The answer punches me harder than I expect.

“Who?” I ask.

He holds my gaze for three full seconds before saying, “Someone I failed to protect.”

My chest squeezes in a way that has nothing to do with attraction.

And then he shifts again, closer, enough that I feel the warmth of his leg near mine. It’s barely a touch, a breath apart, but the tension spirals in my stomach like a string pulled taut.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

“Then leave,” I tell him.

“I don’t want to.”

God help me because neither do I.

The silence returns, but it’s different now. It’s heavier and warmer, like something cracked open between us, and neither of us knows what to do with everything that spilled out. It hums in the air—unspoken, charged, and impossible to ignore. This man, this maddeningly perfect man, is sitting right next to me, and all I can think about is how it would feel if he touched me. Just his hand on mine and his fingers brushing my skin. The thought alone sends heat coiling low in my stomach.

I remind myself that he’s older. Much older. At least twenty years, maybe more. But that fact, that line Ishouldbe drawing in the sand, only blurs the longer I look at him.

Because God, he’s beautiful. And not in the airbrushed, magazine-cover kind of way. He’s beautiful in the way mountains are. Stark. Solid. Timeless. The kind of beauty that doesn’t ask for attention but commands it.

And I’m already too far gone to pretend I’m not staring.

I look down at my knees, bite the inside of my cheek, and whisper, “I need to get laid.”

Silas blinks. Then, he raises an eyebrow.

I don’t look at him, but I feel his eyes like fire and ice, colliding on my skin.

“You’re not subtle,” he says.

“And you’re not blind.”

A pause. Then his voice drops to something rough, dark. “That’s the problem.”

And suddenly, the treehouse is too small, the air too thick, and the space between us too charged to be safe. He stands slowly, his boots creaking on the wooden floor.

“I’ll wait below,” he says. “When you’re ready.”

Then he climbs down, disappearing into the mist like he was never there. Clutching the journal to my chest, I feel him still in my pulse and the fire between my thighs that I now have to deal with alone. I swear to God, if this keeps up, Iwillbreak first, but it’ll bemychoice when I do.

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