Page 50 of Her Soul to Own

She nods, her eyes glassy.

“You were good for me,” I whisper. “Now I’m going to be so fucking good for you.”

I lean in, my tongue flicking out to trace a path over her inner thigh, then higher, closer, until I’m right where she needs me most. I press a kiss to her clit, soft and deliberate. Her entire body lifts off the bed.

I hold her hips down with one hand, the other still working inside her, and start to feast.

She cries out. Sharp, filthy, and desperate.

Every lick is a claim. Every moan she spills is mine. I alternate pressure, tempo, angle, and reading her body like a script I’ve memorized in dreams. Her hands fly to my hair, gripping tightly as if she can anchor herself through me.

“You going to come for me?” I murmur against her. “You going to give it to me, baby?”

“Yes… please… Silas…”

The way she says my name breaks something open inside me.

I suck her clit gently between my lips and press just a little deeper with my fingers, and that’s all it takes. Her whole body locks, then shatters. A sob escapes her throat as she comes, her hips bucking helplessly, her thighs clenching around my head.

I don’t stop. I ride her through it, holding her until the last tremor fades.

When I finally pull away, her chest is heaving, her limbs boneless. Her eyes find mine, dazed and shining.

“Holy shit,” she whispers.

Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I crawl back up the bed and settle beside her, pulling her into my arms.

“You’re mine,” I murmur against her hair. “Every goddamn inch of you.”

She sighs, melting into my chest. “Yeah,” she breathes. “I really am.”

Chapter 11 – Lyra – The Present Fractures

The sun is an intrusive bitch this afternoon, slicing through the gauzy curtains like a blade of gold and shame. It washes everything in that soft, romantic hue they use in perfume commercials. Only here, it’s highlighting a crime scene of tangled sheets and memories I can’t scrub off my skin. I blink into the light, groaning, and then I see it.

A velvet box.

It’s sitting right there on the pillow beside me like a fucking proposal. Silas left it behind after marking me in every goddamn way he could last night.

There’s no note or name. Silas Creed doesn’t need monograms or declarations. I know it’s from him.

My fingers are hesitant as I reach for it, something like anticipation coiling in my gut. When I flip it open, the breath catches in my throat. A choker. It’s black velvet, simple but decadent, with a thin silver pendant at the center. Understated, elegant, and deadly.

I hold it up. There’s something about it that feels heavier than it should. I turn it over and, of course, there it is. A tracker. Embedded in the clasp, tiny and almost imperceptible.

My hands shake.

This should feel like a violation, like control, like the edge of a leash. But instead, it feels like protection.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I sit up, dragging the sheets with me and curling into myself. The vibrator is still on the floor, tossed off the bed sometime last night. I don’t look at it. I can’t. Not right now.

Instead, I clasp the choker around my neck. It fits perfectly, like it was made for me.

It probably was.

The mirror confirms what I already know.

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