Page 35 of Her Soul to Own

Not with me.

I stalk down the hall, my slippers hitting marble like war drums. Past the cameras, past the portraits of dead men I’m supposed to respect, and straight to the east wing—old, neglected, and forgotten by guards, security, and ghosts.

The sunroom. My sanctuary.

I push the door open and close it behind me. There’s no whirring, no trace of red lights, and no sign of hidden lenses.

I’m alone.

The sun spills through the grimy glass ceiling in fractured gold, spotlighting the dust as it dances in lazy spirals. I breathe in deeply. It smells like ivy and dry earth and memory.

And freedom.

I sit on the edge of the old bench, my heart clawing against my ribs. My fingers scroll through my contacts, shaking just enough to betray the storm building under my skin.

Elijah Blake.

Fuck.

Even just seeing his name makes my chest ache. The kind of ache that comes with memory, regret, and a pulse that starts pounding in places it shouldn’t.

We met in college. He was two years ahead of me, older, sharper, and already halfway out the door with a future that practically came with handcuffs and a badge. He was gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that didn’t need to try. Smart, too. Sharp as glass. And quiet. Not shy, justdangerouslyquiet.

He chased me like I was the cure and the disease rolled into one. Like he wanted to heal me and wreck me in equal measure. And I let him. For a little while. We had sparks. No…fire. The all-consuming kind, the kind that burns too hot to last.

But he was on the FBI fast track. Clean-cut, disciplined, and bound for greatness.

And I was… me. Chaos wrapped in lipstick. A walking headline with a habit of making bad decisions in six-inch heels. So, I did what I always do when things get too real. I ghosted him. No goodbye. No explanation. I just vanished.

And now I need a man who knows how to bend the rules just enough to protect someone. Someone who can color outside the lines without falling off the page.

And Elijah was always a littletoogood at walking that line. Strait-laced, but not afraid to get dirty when it counted.

My finger hovers over his contact for a second too long.

Then I hitcall.

The dial tone rings. Once. Twice.

I almost start regretting my decision when he finally picks up.

“Lyra?”

His voice slices through the static like a knife. Smooth and a little deeper. His voice could talk you into sin and out of handcuffs.

“Elijah,” I say, breathless.

A long pause. “Wow. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, “I know it’s been a minute.”

“A minute?” he repeats, laughing, but it’s tight. “Try fucking years.”

I shut my eyes and press my fingers against my temple. The headache’s back. Pounding and a lot worse. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Are you safe?”

I flinch. Safe is relative. “I need a favor.”

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