Page 47 of Her Soul to Own

We stare at each other like titans at war.

“Be careful, Lyra,” he says, quiet and deadly. “Some truths cost more than they’re worth.”

I smirk. “Then it’s a good thing I’m rich.”

I spin around and walk out.

But not before I see it—that touch of fear in his eyes. It’s clearly not for me, but for what I might uncover next.

Well, two can play this game. Silas thinks he can play puppet master with strings made of secrets. Fine. Let’s see how he handles a little performance of my own.

I don’t go looking for him. I don’t scream, accuse, or throw anything, at least not yet. Instead, I climb the stairs with the calm precision of a woman with a plan. My room is exactly as I left it: a mess disguised in velvet and sunlight. But today, there’s purpose in the mess.

I shove open my closet doors, my fingers brushing over hangers and satin until I find it tucked all the way in the back behind piles of designer regrets. The red dress.

It once belonged to my mother. It’s soft, and it’s vintage. It smells faintly of old perfume and defiance. I have a picture of her in it while she was in Paris, on the trip she never made her way back from. The dress was sent to me by my aunt, the one I’ve never really talked to, but I know she exists and cares.

I strip down slowly, tossing every barrier between me and that fabric onto the floor. My skin is fully bare, my intent sharpened like a knife. I slide the dress over my shoulders and feel it slip against me like it remembers a woman who used to wear it with the same don’t-fuck-with-me attitude.

No jewelry. No shoes. Just that dress and a storm in my veins.

I move to my dresser and pull open the hidden drawer beneath the makeup tray. My fingers curl around the sleek, black, and almost elegant vibrator. The way Silas watches, the way he always thinks he’s two steps ahead? Let’s see how composed he stays when the show’s not choreographed by him.

I need to let this frustration out somehow, and after what that man did to me last night, leaving me aching, unsatisfied, and burning for more, this doesn’t even scratch the surface of revenge.

I walk to the center of the room and glance at the tiny black dot nestled in the ceiling corner.

“Hope you’re paying attention, Creed,” I whisper, my voice like smoke. “Because this one’s for you.”

I don’t break eye contact with the camera. Not once. I don’t have to say it again.

He’ll see. And that’s the point.

Chapter 10 – Silas – Filthy Little Things

She knows I’m watching, and she wants me to. Either way, I’m rooted to the spot with my breath caught in my throat as Lyra slides her hand up her chest and cups one perfect breast. Her fingers knead and tease, circling her hardened nipple until she gasps, her hips shifting. My cock twitches at the sound.

She grips the vibrator in her other hand, lining the tip up to her entrance. I know that model. It’s strong as hell, with an extra nub at the base that’s made to hit her clit just right. The moment she turns it on, her body reacts, her back arching slightly, her thighs parting wider.

I watch, entranced, as she presses the head of it against her folds. Her mouth parts in a moan so soft and sinful that it’s almost reverent. That dress bunched around her waist is familiar, one I’ve fantasized a million times about her wearing. But right now, it’s not the fucking clothes I care about. It’s the way she starts to push the vibrator inside and the way her body yields around it, stretching and welcoming.

Her fingers pinch her nipple harder, tugging, while she eases it in further. My hands clench at my sides as I fight the urge to storm in and take over. But I can’t move. Not when she looks like that, wild, flushed, and drenched in heat and hunger.

Then she grabs a pillow, props it between her knees, and straddles it. For a moment, everything slows. I barely breathe. Then she drops down, impaling herself on the silicone cock, and I nearly lose it.

I should look away.

Ishould.

But the part of me that still knows right from wrong, the part that gives a damn about boundaries and consequences, has gone silent, drowned under the low, hungry growl that builds in my chest. It’s not my brain calling the shots anymore. It’s lower than that. Harder. Hungrier. My cock is thick and straining against my zipper, and every breath is a struggle.

I stand. I don’t even remember deciding to. My legs move without permission, driven by something primal, urgent. I’m moving down the hallway like a man in a trance. The world’s gone blurry around the edges. All I can hear is the soft, wet sound of her—Lyra—slick and full and riding that toy like she’s trying to break herself on it.

By the time I reach her door, I’m not even sure I’m breathing.

I hesitate for a half-second. Just long enough to feel the heat pulsing in my blood and taste the raw ache of wanting her on the back of my tongue. Then my hand is on the knob, turning, pushing.

The door creaks open, just enough for me to see her.

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