Page 46 of Her Soul to Own

It means he’s here.

Evander Vane, my father, lord of steel and concrete, likes to play the family man on the first weekend of the month. He spends the rest of the month holed up in his city office, making deals that choke the skyline and pretending he doesn’t have blood on his hands. But the month’s first weekend? He’s up before the goddamn sun, running laps around the estate like some alpha wolf maintaining dominance.

I don’t bother changing. I storm down the grand staircase in paint-stained sweats and fury. My slippers slam against marble, the journal clutched to me like a weapon. I pass hisbutler, who flew in with him, and he flinches. Good. Let them fear me.

My father’s study door is open. He’s inside, already dressed in his weekend uniform of tailored joggers and a black long-sleeve, barefoot like some kind of Zen warlord. His back is to me, his hands cradling a crystal tumbler of something dark. The room smells like cedar, old books, and dominance. Shelves line the walls, floor-to-ceiling, and the giant oak desk stands like a throne.

I throw the journal onto it.

“Why is Silas’s name in this?”

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even react, just sips on his drink.

“It’s a common name,” he says.

“And yet you hired that one.”

He finally turns. His face is worn, the dark circles under his eyes like bruises he’s too proud to cover. But the lie is already sitting on his tongue.

“I hired him because he’s the best.”

“The best at what? Surveillance? Violence? Scaring your daughter shitless in the name of security?”

He exhales slowly. “You’re not supposed to know everything, Lyra.”

“Bullshit. Don’t feed me that patriarchal cloak-and-dagger crap. I’m not ten.”

Evander sets the glass down with a hard clink. “You think you know danger because you grew up in this house. Well, you don’t.”

“And you think hiring a man mentioned in Mom’s journal is just a coincidence?”

That hits. His eyes give him away for a second. And I see it. I see the guilt, slick and oily beneath the surface.

“You leave your mother out of this.”

I lean forward. “She’s already in it.”

His fingers curl on the desk. “Your mother was sick.”

“She had cancer, yeah. That’s the story. Closed casket, your orders. You never let me see her.”

“It was her wish,” he snaps. A little too quickly.

“You mean it was your control,” I bite back.

His unresponsiveness says everything. But I don’t tell him about the tape. Not yet. That’s my card. My insurance.

“You hired a man she feared,” I whisper. “You invited that man into this house. Intomyroom.”

Evander rubs a hand over his face. For a moment, he looks old. Tired. But not sorry.

“Silas Creed is a good man,” he mutters.

I laugh. Dry. Mean. “He’s a fucking menace.”

“He’s saved more lives than you know.”

“And destroyed how many?”

---