Page 25 of Her Soul to Own

She knows. Shealwaysknows.

A smirk pulls at the edge of her mouth. “Are you watching, Creed?” she murmurs to no one and everyone. And then she’s gone, her hips swaying past the frame, a walking dare in stilettos and cherry lipstick.

I’m already moving.

She takes the driver Evander assigned her for the week. I take a second vehicle. It’s unmarked and quiet. I stay two cars behind, my eyes fixed on her silhouette through the windshield every chance I get. Evander’s latest memo had been clear: No contact with others unless necessary. We hired you for discretion, not intimidation.”

Right.Because the best way to control chaos is toobserveit from a safe distance. Like she’s a forest fire, and I’m supposed to take notes while she burns the whole fucking town down.

I don’t take notes. I hunt.

The road to Willowridge’s riverside diner curves like a spine through quiet neighborhoods and long-forgotten fields. Lyra stares out the window like she’s in a movie, coasting through her script like a phantom in the third act, and I watch from two cars behind, my headlights off.

The diner sits like a postcard at the edge of the river, with fairy lights strung around chipped windows and the neon sign blinking like an old heartbeat. It’s got that nostalgic Americana charm that’s meant to disarm. But nothing here feels charming.

I park half a block down and kill the engine, my eyes scanning the lot.

She’s already inside. And he’s waiting.

Jake Brown.

The name makes my jaw clench hard enough to grind enamel. He’s the kind of guy who always looks like he just stepped out of a GQ shoot in a way that pisses me off. He has artfully tousled sandy blond hair and a square jaw that’s shaved too clean. That preppy, effortless vibe like he summers in the Hamptons and still thinks Patek Philippe is a personality. Tight polo, rolled sleeves, and muscular forearms, but not from anything real, just good genes and private tennis lessons.

He’s smiling already, that easy, arrogant kind of grin that gets girls into trouble and out of parking tickets.

And right now, it’s aimed at her.

All-American golden boy with dimples and a trust fund. The kind of guy who still calls his mom every Sunday and thinks therapy is forotherpeople. They’ve hooked up before. I know. Her texts, her call logs, the way she tilts her head when his namecomes up… it all adds up. And now he’s back in the picture, all teeth and harmless charm, like a damn Labrador in loafers.

She slides into the booth like sin wrapped in smoke.

He leans in, and they kiss. It’s not a greeting. It’s like a memory.

His hand cradles her cheek like he knows her face better than his own. She lets him and tilts into it, that damn dress molding to her curves like liquid seduction. Their lips meet again, slower this time, like they’re both savoring something stolen. My fists clench.

She’s flirting now. She’s laughing too much and tilting her head in a way that says she knows he’s watching her mouth. She toys with the stem of her wine glass, her fingers gliding over the crystal suggestively, her lips slightly parted. Her heel brushes his ankle under the table, then lingers. It’s calculated.

She orders a bottle of wine. Not a glass but a bottle. A classy vintage too. She’s drinking to forget or to tempt. Probably both. Jake’s hand is already on hers across the table, his thumb brushing soft circles against her skin like he thinks he has any idea what he’s doing.

My pulse hammers in my ears. I’m watching something I have no right to want to rip apart. And yet, here I am, aching to walk in and tear her away from him like I own her.

Because right now, in my head, I do.

She’s wearing that black dress, the one with the dangerously low back and the high slit that leaves nothing to the imagination when she crosses her legs. Her skin glows under the cheap diner lighting, soft and golden, like she doesn’t belong in this town or this booth or this world.

And yet here she is.

Looking like temptation and sipping red wine with the man I hate more than anyone I’ve ever met.

Jake leans in again. “Your guard dog not following tonight?”

Lyra’s smile is sweet. Venomous. “Not yet.”

The back of my neck tingles. I can’t hear them, but years in the military taught me to lip-read quite well. Her tone is light and teasing, but her eyes flick toward the window. SheknowsI’m here. She might not see me. But shefeelsit.

The server refills her glass. She drinks again, faster now, as Jake touches her wrist. His fingers trail up her forearm lazily.

I exhale slowly, and my hands flex against the steering wheel. Every muscle in my arms tightens like I’m gearing up for a fight I’m not allowed to start.

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