Page 28 of Her Soul to Own

“And you’re playing with fire, Vane,” I snap, every word tight enough to snap steel. “Don’t forget who’s holding the extinguisher.”

I bare my teeth. My breath’s coming hard now, fast and sharp, and I don’t trust myself to stay calm if I keep looking at either of them. So I pull out my phone and hit the comm line for the driver.

“Start the fucking car,” I bark.

Nothing. Then, a mumbled, “Yes, sir.” He’s parked on the opposite side of the diner, probably chewing gum and pretending he’s not on the payroll to babysit a bomb in stilettos.

I step forward, my eyes locked on Lyra. Her body tenses immediately because she knows that look on my face. It’s the one that means I’m done being reasonable.

She straightens, her chin up and arms crossed like she’s daring me to try. “You touch me again, and I swear…”

I don’t give her time to finish.

I grab her elbow, firm and fast. I’m not hurting her. Yet. “We’re done here,” I growl.

She jerks her arm back violently. “No.Youmight be done. I’m not your fucking responsibility…”

I step in closer, my grip tightening. My other hand shoots up, cupping her jaw in one swift motion, enough to tilt her face toward mine, to hold her still. “Don’t test my patience, Lyra.”

Her eyes narrow defiantly. “Or what? You’ll drag me away like some caveman?”

I lean in, my voice dropping to something primal. “No. I’ll burn the whole damn town down if you make me.”

We stare at each other, our noses nearly touching. Her breath hits mine, wine-soaked and furious. The spark in her eyes, part challenge and part panic, makes something feral unfurl in my chest.

And then she opens her mouth to scream, but I beat her to it. In one swift, practiced motion, I surge forward, duck low, and wrap an arm around her waist. Before she can get the first syllable out, I hoist her clean off from inside the car and sling herover my shoulder like she weighs nothing, like she’s air and fire and fury all bundled into one infuriating, squirming package.

“What theFUCK, Creed?! Put me down!” she shrieks, her voice muffled against my back as she flails wildly.

She kicks, but her legs are tangled in her dress, which makes it more frantic than effective. She punches, little fists hammering at my back with all the fury of a caffeinated kitten. It’s chaos. Her palms slap against my spine, her hair swinging like a whip as she thrashes, but still, I don’t stop.

She beats her fists against me like she thinks she can make me waver, like she doesn’t realize I’ve been through war zones quieter than this.

“You insane, testosterone-choked psycho!” she hisses, kicking her heels against my ribs. “Put me thefuckdown!”

Right now, this is the only way to shut her up. And maybe, deep down, some twisted part of me likes the feel of her pressed against me, even if she’s half-feral and spitting fire.

“You’re light as hell,” I mutter, ignoring the string of obscenities she hurls at me. “What do you weigh, ninety pounds soaking wet?”

“Put me down, you medieval fuck!” she screeches, trying to wiggle free.

I hold her tighter. “Careful, Vane,” I grunt. “You keep squirming like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re enjoying the ride.”

She growls. Actually growls. “I’m going tokillyou in your sleep.”

“Get in line,” I mutter, marching toward the curb where the black sedan is just pulling up.

The driver gets out, sees me carrying her like a sack of drama and fury, and freezes with his mouth open and eyes wide. Smart man, he says nothing.

I jerk my head toward the door. “Open it.”

He does, silently, and I toss Lyra into the backseat like I’m dumping a particularly troublesome suitcase.

She lands with a shriek, hair wild, dress rumpled, and fury radiating off her in hot waves. “I willsueyou. I will have youarrested. I will call myfather…”

“Iamyour father’s solution,” I growl, slamming the door before she can finish.

The window’s down just enough for me to lean in.

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