Page 43 of Her Soul to Own

I can feel her legs tightening around my waist, her thighs quivering, her breath going ragged. Her mouth falls open, and Iknow,I know, she’s right there on the edge of coming. One more thrust, one more stroke, and she’ll be gone.

So naturally… I stop.

Just like that, I pull back and step away, letting her body fall still and twitching in my arms, unfinished and feral.

Because this girl… this gorgeous, reckless hurricane of a woman? She needs to be punished. And not in the way she wants. What better way to drive her mad than denying her the one thing she’s seconds from falling apart for?

It kills me, don’t get me wrong. Every part of me wants to bury itself inside her and watch her fall apart just for me. To hear those moans spill out with my name tangled in them. But I’ve got an ego, and she just challenged it with fire in her eyes and her hands all over my control panel.

Her gaze snaps up to mine, wild and seething. Her chest is heaving, her hands gripping the rail behind her like she might throttle me with it.

“What thefuck, Creed?” she groans, her voice raspy with frustration.

And God, it’s beautiful. The disbelief in her eyes and the way her lips part like she can’t decide whether to scream or demand more.

She didn’t see this coming. I set her down on her feet, and she wobbles a little before gaining balance. She lets go of the railing and pushes down her tank top. She didn’t expect me to walk away. And that, right there, is the best part.

I smirk, slow, unapologetic, and a little wicked.

“That’s your punishment for challenging me, Lyra,” I say, my voice low and smug.

She glares at me like she’s two seconds away from murder.

I only grin wider, taking a few slow steps back and savoring the fire in her eyes. She’s furious and gorgeous with it.

“I fucking hate you,” she growls, her voice low and venom-laced.

I chuckle, because honestly? I probably deserve that. I feel like a complete asshole… but I can’t bring myself to regret it.

“Sweet dreams, Lyra,” I say with a mock salute and a cocky smirk.

Then I turn, leave, and shut the door behind me, letting it click softly into place and leaving her there, seething, aching, and unfinished.

Just the way I planned.

Chapter 9 – Lyra – Secrets in the Attic

The estate is still when I wake up. That strange, aching stillness of a too-early morning where dawn hasn’t fully broken, but the world isn’t black anymore either. It’s that blue-gray space in between, where everything looks haunted and too quiet. My head throbs with a dull, persistent ache. Not sharp like a hangover, but foggy, like a load pressing behind my eyes. The wine from last night lingers in my system, sour and warm, a slow poison I welcomed like an old friend.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up in the semi-dark. I grab it without thinking. Messages. Notifications. God, there are too many. Zara. Club invites. A group selfie of girls I barely know anymore, all with glittery eyes, red lips, and captions like:Last night was a blurrrr.

I stare at it blankly, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then, I lock it. I can’t deal with their noise right now. I can’t even deal with Zara’s text, sweet and worried, which says,You okay? Missed you so much last night.

Instead, I listen for a voice that no longer exists.

And then I hear it. I know it’s not real, but I replay it in my memories. My mother’s laughter, echoing and disjointed, like it’s bouncing off the inside of my skull. I sit up sharply, my breath catching in my throat. The room is still, empty, and unwelcoming. But the sound lingers, faint and cruel.

Drawn by instinct, or maybe just desperation, I pull on a hoodie over my tank top, grab my phone, and pad barefoot down the hall. The house creaks beneath my feet. It always does, like it remembers each one of my ancestors who walked these floors.

The attic door groans when I push it open. Dust rushes down in little clouds, making me cough. The staircase is narrow, and it gets cooler the higher I climb. By the time I reach the top, goosebumps cover my arms beneath my hoodie.

The attic is a cathedral of shadows. Light filters in through the slatted windows, slicing through dust like blades. Everything is covered in old sheets, pale shrouds over forgotten furniture. It smells like cedar and time. I haven’t been up here since… God, since before she died. Maybe longer.

I don’t know what I’m looking for until I see it.

Behind two old trunks, there’s a cedar chest. It’s beautiful and carved with delicate rose patterns. I remember this. It once sat at the foot of her bed, always locked and always off-limits.

I kneel before it with hesitating fingers.

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