Page 3 of Her Soul to Own

That’s not a man. That’s my father’s weapon.

His movements are too precise. There’s no wasted energy. His boots hit the ground like they belong there. Like he’s not visiting. He’sarriving. And his eyes… fuck. Even from this distance, I can feel them. Unsympathetic. Sharp. Guarded.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pause for a second. He just looks at the estate like he’s scanning a battlefield.

And then my father walks out to meet him. Personally.

Evander fucking Vane, who seems like he makes everyone else knock and wait, iswaitingon the damn steps like a doorman. That’s how I know this guy isn’t just some security flunky. He’s something else.

They shake hands. Or something close to it. It’s more like a professional nod, quick and clipped. No words exchanged that I could see. Just two men who know exactly what they’re doing.

Silas Creed doesn’t even glance up. He doesn’t have to. The goosebumps rising on my skin say it all.

But I swear, just for a second, he pauses like hefeelseyes on him watching his every move, and like something in his bones recognizes mine.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe. Because I’ve seen men like him before. I've seen soldiers and suits and predators in designer shoes. But this is something different. Stillness. That’s what gets me.

He doesn’t fidget or shift his weight. He justexists, solid and unshaken, like the world will move aroundhim.

I take a step back from the window. I don’t know this man. I’ve barely seen him, and he’s already getting to me. And that’s a fucking problem.

I back away from the window like it has burned me. My pulse is still hammering from that stare, or the lack of one. He didn’t even look at me. Not directly. But Ifelthis eyes already mapping me out without needing to find my face.

I hate that. I hatehim, whoever the hell he is, for making me feel that kind of static under my skin. He’s making me feel uncomfortable in my own room. Fucking bastard!

My room feels smaller now, like his presence outside shrinks the air I can breathe. The storm doesn’t help, the wind curling around the estate like it’s trying to peel the walls away. The occasional flash of lightning paints the room in stark, surgical white. I should turn on the lights or maybe change my clothes. I should just do something that makes me feel normal so I can take my mind off of what’s happening in my life right now.

But instead, I pace, my bare feet slapping softly against the polished hardwood, my arms crossed tightly over my chest like I’m trying to hold myself together.

Downstairs, I hear the front door open. There are no raised voices or dramatic footsteps, just the kind of quiet that screamscontrol. Of course. I’m not down there screaming at the top of my lungs or smashing things despite knowing it won’t make a difference. This guy probably doesn’t make a noise unless he wants to break someone’s neck with it.

I creep toward my bedroom door and press my ear to it. Nothing. Just the distant thrum of rain against the windows and the low murmur of voices too muffled to catch. My fingers tighten on the doorknob, itching to go down there, to see him up close. Maybe even to tear this whole scene to shreds before it gets any worse.

But I don’t. Not yet. I don’t want to think about the upcoming days and how everything’s about to change. Even though I’ve been living at home, there was still some privacy I had, but now, even that won’t be an option.

I just wait in my room. Like prey. But I know if this guy is half as dangerous as he feels, I need to see him before he seesmeagain.

I cross to the staircase and hover in the shadows of the landing. The grand entryway below is lit like a fucking museum, with gold fixtures, marble tile, and the whole “old money never tries too hard” aesthetic. My father stands by the fireplace, his hands behind his back like he’s giving a goddamn war briefing.

Andhestands just inside the door.

Jesus.

Silas Creed. Even his name sounds like a fucking warning, filling the space like smoke. He’s not just tall. He’sdense, like he was carved from a single slab of stone and someone forgot to add the soft parts. His black coat is still wet at the shoulders, his combat boots are perfectly silent on the floor, and a duffel is slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing.

His face is hard to see from where I stand, obscured by the way the shadows drape across him like a veil. But what I do catch, even in fragments, is striking, almost dangerously so. Hisjawline is all sharp edges, clean and chiseled like cut glass, as if it had been carved by something with precision and intent. The planes of his face are weathered in a way that speaks of time. He looks like he’s in his mid-forties, but there’s nothing soft or worn-out about him. If anything, there’s a dangerous kind of stillness to him, like a man who’s seen too much and learned to keep it quiet.

His eyes catch the light just enough to reveal a color that’s almost silver-blue, stark against the darker tones around him. They don’t dart or wander. They settle like he’s already assessed the room and made peace with what he’ll need to do if things turn.

As he moves and his face hits the light, I notice that at the base of his neck, just above the line of his collar, a scar is snaking its way into view. It’s thin but ragged, like it wasn’t made cleanly, and it definitely hurt. It disappears beneath the fabric, hinting at a longer story buried just out of sight. Not far from that, his sleeve shifts slightly as he moves, revealing the ink of an eagle in mid-flight stretched across his upper arm. Its wings are outstretched, its talons curved, the feathers etched with such detail that they seem ready to lift from his skin and take off. It’s not the kind of tattoo you get on a whim. It looks earned.

There’s a presence about him that feels like gravity, subtle, steady, and impossible to ignore. Even without a word, he’s the kind of man who makes a room quieter just by being in it. He doesn’t speak. Not even when my dad offers him a drink. He just shakes his head, then turns to scan the room like he’s memorizing every angle.

Dad says something else, and I watch Silas nod, but barely. There’s not even a hint of a smile on his face. He looks like he’s a machine built to follow orders. Or break them, if they don’t suit him.

That’s when I realize I’m holding my breath.Fuck this.I’m not going to skulk in corners like some scared little socialite. If this is my new reality, I want to meet it head-on.

I stomp down the stairs, each step louder than it needs to be, like noise can drown out nerves. Maybe if I sound confident enough, it’ll hide the twisting in my gut. My father looks up first, his jaw locking tight like he’s bracing for a storm he’s seen coming for miles. Silas turns a moment later, just half a beat behind, but somehow it feels intentional, like he was always going to wait until I made the first move.