Page 33 of Her Soul to Own

I lower the phone and stare at my reflection. My hair is like a storm cloud with mascara rings under my eyes and lips still red from last night’s wine and Jake’s mouth.

And all I can think is, if Jake’s really gone… Silas is going to answer for it.

Even if I have to rip the truth out of his goddamn throat.

I storm down the hallway, every step echoing with the fury tightening my chest. The air feels electric, like the moment before a storm cracks open the sky. My palms sting from howhard I’m clenching them, my nails digging half-moons into my skin.

The doors to the dining hall swing open with a crash.

And there he is.

Silas Creed.Sitting like he owns the fucking world. Back straight, plate half-finished, and fork in hand like he hasn’t just unraveled the thread of my sanity. He looks up slowly, and for a split second, his eyes pin me like a knife to a wall.

I don’t think.

I grab the closest mug and hurl it with every ounce of rage I’ve got. It shatters against the wall beside him, ceramic exploding like shrapnel.

“Jake’s missing! You did this!” My voice cracks on the last word—too much wine, too much panic, too much goddamn everything.

Silas doesn’t react. Not even a twitch.

“I’ll look into it,” he says like we’re discussing the weather.

“You looked into me,” I hiss, stalking closer. “You saw us. You were there.”

He sets his fork down, the click of it unnaturally loud on the plate. Then he tilts his head, his eyes like ice and iron. “Do you want comfort, Lyra? Or do you want the truth?”

My laugh is hollow. “I want Jake alive! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He rises, slow and quiet, every movement precise, like a predator bored of the chase.

“Oh, please,” he says, his voice low and edged like broken glass. “He was just a booty call. You don’t actually care about him.”

I move fast, almost blind with fury. “Fuck you, Creed.”

But he doesn’t back down. Doesn’t even blink.

“He’s fine,” he says, stepping closer until I can feel his heat like a live wire. “I haven’t done any damage. At least, not yet.”

The way he says it, it’s not reassurance. It’s a fucking threat.

My breath catches, fury twisting into something darker. “Oh my God! Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He smirks. “Keep pushing me, Vane, keep testing the line. Maybe I’ll give you something real to scream about.”

My heart is a drumline. Fast and erratic. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, close enough that I can see the silver flecks in his steel-blue eyes. “And you’re reckless, sloppy, addicted to being watched. You want the impossible.”

“I want to know what happened to him.”

His expression doesn’t change. There’s no regret or hesitation. “He was trouble.”

And just like that, it hits me. He’s not sorry. He doesn’tneedto be.

And somewhere, in the sickest, most twisted part of me, I realize I’m not just afraid.

I’m turned on.

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