Page 31 of Her Soul to Own

The sun slices through my curtains like a blade—too bright, too soon, and entirely uninvited.

My head is fucking throbbing. Not the dull, manageable hangover ache. No, this is the kind of migraine that feels like a medieval war is being waged behind my eyes with tiny, ruthless hammers. I groan, rolling onto my side, my mouth tasting like cheap red wine and bad decisions. The dress I passed out in is still tangled around my thighs.

Fucking hell.

I blink through the haze, flashes of last night tumbling back into my brain like broken glass. Jake’s laugh in the diner, his hand drifting too high on my thigh, and his breath warm and cocky against my jaw. The kiss… sweet at first, then hungrier, hotter. And then…

Boots. Black. Fast. Angry.

Silas.

Storming out of the shadows like a soldier on a mission, his jaw locked and eyes blazing, dragging me out like a fucking criminal.

I sit up too fast, and regret slams into me as my stomach flips. “Shit,” I mutter, reaching for the phone lying abandoned on the floor. My thumb stabs the screen, unlocking it and refreshing my messages.

Nothing.

No texts. No calls. No notifications.

Nothing from Jake. That’s not like him. The guy’s borderline obsessed with me, and after the way we left things last night, he should be blowing up my phone, begging me tocome over, to let him make it up to me, to let himfuckit out of both our systems.

But… there’s nothing.

And God, it’s driving me insane.

I need to get railed before I completely lose my mind. Before this restless, aching energy eats me alive from the inside out.

I sit up straighter, the fog in my brain thinning with a rising chill in my body. I checked his Instagram, and he hasn’t posted since yesterday. Not even a recycled selfie. No stories, not even a thirst trap. It’s like someone hit pause on his life.

I dial.

Voicemail.

I dial again.

Straight to voicemail.

“Come on, come on, pick up,” I whisper, pacing now, still barefoot, still in yesterday’s dress. Panic tightens its grip, wrapping icy fingers around my ribs.

I call again. Nothing.

My chest constricts.

This isn’t just a flake move, and it isn’t a morning-after ghost. Jake might be a golden retriever in human form, but he always follows up. Always.

I stab at my contacts and hit Zara’s name. The phone rings three times before she picks up, groggy.

“Lyra? What the hell? It’s, like, not even seven,” she grumbles.

“Jake’s missing.” My voice is high, cracked, and shaking.

There’s a pause on the line. Then a rustling of fabric and sheets being shoved off. “What? What do you mean by missing?”

“I mean… he left me at the diner last night. I got taken home. And now he’s just… gone. No calls. No texts. His Instagram’s dead. And he hasn’t been online.”

“Lyra, back up. Taken home by who?”

I close my eyes. “My bodyguard.”

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