Page 51 of Her Soul to Own

I look like Ibelongto him.

I’m still naked, bare in the afternoon light, with the morning’s acts written all over me. My skin is flushed, marked with faint shadows of fingers and mouths, each one a silent claim. My hair is a wild mess, tangled and unruly, like it’s still recovering from the way his hands gripped it. My lips are swollen and slightly parted, still tingling from kisses that bordered on violence. And my breasts, lifted and sensitive, seem to respond to the memory of his mouth like they’re waiting for it again.

But it’s the choker that seals it—that thin band of black velvet clinging to my throat like a collar. The slight weight of the silver pendant pressing against my collarbone feels heavier than it should, like a brand. It’s not flashy or ostentatious. It’sundeniable.

It feels natural on me, like it’s always been there.

I told myself I’d never let anyone have that kind of power over me. Not after my dad’s obsession with having power over me and everyone else. But then there’sSilas.

Last night, I let him do things to me that I didn’t even know I wanted. Things I’d never dared imagine. He cracked something open inside me, something dark and hungry that I’d buried under years of pretending I was in control.

I used to think I was vanilla. The thought of him watching me last night as I almost climaxed makes me wet again. The things he did to me and how I responded.Fuck.Turns out, I just hadn’t met the right kind of fucked up.

But now what? Do things change between us? No. No, they don’t. It was just a hookup. A mistake. I didn’t even get a chance to confront him about my mother before losing my mind.

Who the hell am I kidding?

I push off the bed, the sheets still warm with the morning’s exertions clinging to my skin. I need out. Air. Noise. Something that’s not drenched in this estate’s suffocating history and the ghost of my mother’s voice still echoing behind my ears. I’m not trying to blend in. I know I won’t, but I don’t want to be recognized either. Not today.

I scroll through my phone. It’s Saturday. That itch of rebellion claws up my body. I could spend the day tucked away like a good little girl, hiding from the truth in quiescence. But fuck that. If I’m going to go crazy, I want to do it my way, by going to the market and getting some fresh flowers.Pathetic.

I need to get back on track and respond to the millions of influencer events I’ve been invited to. Maybe I should start taking my online presence more seriously. That way, I might just be able to get out of this hellhole.

I throw on oversized sunglasses and one of my least “Vane heiress” looking outfits. It’s still designer and still cut to perfection, but toned down just enough to pass. My boots are scuffed leather, vintage. My lips are bare. But my attitude is not.

The choker stays on.

Downtown, the market is already alive, pulsing with movement and color. The scent of fresh bread, roasted coffee, and something spiced curls around me like perfume. I drift past stalls of handwoven baskets and cheap jewelry, pretending to care. I stop at a flower stand tucked between a bakery and an antique store, the kind of place that smells like memories and burnt cinnamon. The vendor is older, wiry with sun-weathered skin and a smirk that says he’s seen too much and regrets none of it. He’s arranging blooms—lavender, peonies, stalks of thistle—into mason jars, and I ask for the wildflower mix, half because it’s the messiest, and half because it was my mother’s favorite.

The bouquet is chaotic, with poppies in fire-engine red, butter-yellow daisies, and bluebells clinging to the green stalks like secrets. The petals brush my palm as he hands them over, and for a second, it almost feels like something delicate in a world that’s forgotten how to be.

“You’ve got a beautiful neck for that choker,” the old man says, his eyes twinkling with a boldness that makes me want to roll mine.

I give him a tight, dry smile. “Don’t make it weird, old man. It’s just jewelry, not an invitation.”

He chuckles but doesn’t say anything else. He just gives me a nod like we’ve shared some kind of unspoken code. I clutch the bouquet a little tighter, their scent sharp and sweet against the warm afternoon air, and move on, letting the stalks trail against my thigh as I walk away.

I walk through rows of stalls, the scent of fresh bread and blooming lavender thick in the air.

I pause at a small coffee cart parked at the edge of the market and order a vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin. The barista is young, covered in tattoos, and he barely glances at me before calling out my order. I take the steaming cup and paper bag, balancing both in one hand as I turn into the next row of market stalls.

That’s when I feel a presence.

And not the casual kind one expects in a crowd. This is different. There’s a ripple in the air, thick and intrusive. Like someone entered my space with too much hunger and way too much confidence.

He smells like leather and cologne that’s trying too hard. I clock him before he even opens his mouth. He has slicked-back black hair and a generic good-looking face that screams “small-town bartender who flirts with every girl under thirty.” His smile is lazy, his lips curled like he already thinks he has a chance.

“Hey there,” he says, stepping into my path like it’s his goddamn birthright. “You from around here?”

His voice has that scratchy, beer-slick tone of someone who’s used to getting away with this. It slithers up my back and sticks.

I sidestep, clutching the wildflowers and my coffee tightly. “Just visiting,” I reply.

“Well then, welcome. You look like you could use company.”

I raise an eyebrow, my face deadpan. “And you look like you peaked in high school. Move.”

He laughs, unfazed. He takes a half-step closer, his hand brushing against my wrist like he’s entitled to the contact.

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