Page 4 of Her Soul to Own

When our eyes meet, a jolt shoots straight through me.

He doesn’t blink or back out. He just looks at me,reallylooks, and it’s not just seeing. It’s dissecting. Measuring. Absorbing.

His gaze slides over my face, down my body, and then back up. Not in a creepy, leering way, but in a way that makes my skin prickle, like I’ve been marked. Tagged. It feels like a predator picking out the one animal in the herd that runs a little too fast for her own good.

I hate how my body reacts. It betrays me before I can even think to stop it. My breath stutters, hitching in my throat like it has forgotten how to move naturally. My stomach coils tight, a slow, sick twist that makes it hard to tell if it’s dread or something far more dangerous. And worse, so much worse, heat climbs up my neck, crawling over my skin like a flush of guilt. It’s the kind of warmth that prickles, exposing me, as if I’ve been caught red-handed doing something I shouldn’t. I can feel it blooming across my cheeks, impossible to hide, branding me with the kind of shame that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting the wrong thing. My pale skin always betrays me, turning pink at the worst moments, and this is one of them. I know it from the way my cheeks are burning up.

Dad clears his throat. “Lyra, this is Mr. Creed.”

Of course Dad gives him the title to make him more human. It sounds like he’s introducing a private banker instead of a living, breathing warhound.

I fold my arms and stare him down. “Do you speak, Mr. Creed? Or do you just do that whole ‘dead-eyed murder stare’ thing professionally?”

And then,to my surprise, he actually speaks.

“Only when it’s worth it,” he says, his voice low and smooth, with that edge that sounds like it was dragged across gravel and whiskey.

It’s like the room forgets how to breathe. I swear the storm outside grows louder, or maybe it’s just the rush in my ears.

Dad glares at me. “Lyra…”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, not breaking eye contact with Silas. “I like knowing the hired help’s level of selective mutism up front.”

Silas doesn’t react. He doesn’t show any offense or amusement. He just watches me like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.I’m not some toddler who’s going to do tricks for him here.

“I’m not here to help,” he says. “I’m here to protect.”

His words are simple. But the way he says them sounds like a vow. Or a fucking threat. Who knows?

Dad jumps in before I can throw back another line. “He’ll be staying in the guest wing. The east corridor.”

I glance at Silas’s duffel. “You travel light.”

“Everything I need, I carry,” he replies.

That earns a tiny twitch at the corner of my mouth. It’s not a smile, but I respect that. Men who own too much stuff give me the ick anyway.

“All right then, RoboCop,” I mutter, turning toward the stairs. “Try not to shoot anyone unless they really deserve it.”

He doesn’t answer, but as I walk away, I feel him watching me like a shadow wrapping around my ankles.

And I know,know, he’s not just going to stand outside my door and play watchdog. He’s already inside. In my space. In my story. In my fucking head.

That night, I don’t sleep.

I try. Ireallydo. I hurl myself into bed like launching myself face-first into cotton will somehow knock me unconscious. I yank the sheets up like they’ve personally wronged me and shove a pillow over my face like it’s going to suffocate the adrenaline out of my bloodstream. It doesn’t. My heart’s still doing a tap dance, and my brain? Oh, my brain is hosting a full-blown Silas Creed highlight reel in stunning, obsessive, high-definition clarity.

That voice. Lethal and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey. That stare, sharp enough to cut glass and quiet enough to sayeverythingwithout him saying a damn thing. And the way he didn’t evenblinkwhen I threw my usual arsenal of sarcasm at him. Not a twitch. Not a smirk. Just that carved-from-stone stillness, like he’s made of colder stuff than the rest of us.

Most men either run for the hills or puff up like overcompensating pufferfish when I poke at them. But not Silas Creed. He just…absorbedit. Like stone. Unshakable. Forbidding. With ancient temple vibes. He seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. Honestly, it was borderline rude how unaffected he was.

It shouldn’t matter. Really. I should be annoyed. Iamannoyed.

Except, instead of being mad, I’m lying here wondering what he’d look like with his tie off and his sleeves rolled up.

Which is so not the point.

Am I seriously thirsting over my bodyguard?My literal bodyguard. The one hired to make sure I don’t get kidnapped or murdered or whatever. God. It can’t get any more cliché thanthis. I’m a walking, talking security-romance trope. All I need now is a suspiciously timed hotel stay with only one bed.

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