Page 52 of Her Soul to Own

“Come on, pretty girl. Don’t be like that.”

His fingers graze my wrist.

I jerk back, my heart thudding. “I said I’m good.”

And that’s when the shift happens. It’s not a fucking psychic epiphany, just the unmistakable awareness that I’m not alone in this moment. He’s here. Somewhere.

Silas.

He’s not the type to approach in broad daylight unless provoked. But he’s watching. Always. From a distance, from the shadows. I don’t need to see him to be sure because my senses sharpen like I’ve just walked onto a stage, and the spotlight’s on.

The guy in front of me is still talking and leering like he hasn’t noticed the shift in the atmosphere. His gaze crawls over me like it owns something. His smile is the worst kind—entitled. The kind that makes me want to crack my latte cup against his teeth.

But I don’t. Instead, I keep still, composed. Because I know Silas is watching. And for once, I feel like things are in control. Just… charged.

Across the street, I notice it. The black SUV that’s sitting like a dormant predator, the windows tinted and sleek in a way that demands attention. The engine is off, the air around it still and thick with anticipation. Inside, I know he’s watching. I don’t have to see him to know the set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes, and the stress in his hands as they hover over the wheel. He taps it twice, the motion precise, controlled. A signal. A decision.

And then he gets out.

I almost smile, though I bury it quickly.

He stalks toward us with squared shoulders, locked eyes, and every step dripping with intent. The kind of stride that makes people move without knowing why.

The guy’s smile falters instantly, and he finally stops talking. Not that I had been listening to a word he was saying. His eyes flick toward Silas, confusion blooming into recognition… and then panic. His lips part, muttering something that gets lost in traffic. He turns on his heel so fast that it’s like someone pressed fast-forward, nearly spilling his overpriced drink in the process. Then, he’s gone, practically sprinting down the sidewalk like he’s late for his own funeral.

Silas steps into the space he left behind. His movement is not rushed or dramatic. Just… certain. Like a predator who knows the kill is inevitable.

His closeness alone should terrify me. But instead, it calms something wild in my chest.

“Are you okay?” His voice is low, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness beneath the calm.

I nod, though it feels like my throat is wrapped in barbed wire. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t look away. “What was he saying?”

I pause. “Nothing. He’s probably off to find another girl who’s easier to target.” Bitterness coats my words like ash. It tastes like every unwanted touch, every too-close breath, every time I’ve had to force a smile to keep the peace. “Men like that are always on the hunt,” I add.

Silas’s gaze deepens as if he’s memorizing something ugly so he can destroy it later.

“Don’t worry,” he says, low and final. “This is the last time he’ll do something like that.”

I look up at him, and he meets my gaze. His words are a warning, a promise, and a verdict.

I don’t ask more. I don’t need to. The immensity of it sits between us like a breathing thing.

We walk toward the SUV, the bouquet still clutched in my hands like it’s armor. My coffee’s gone cold, but I sip it anyway. He opens the SUV door. His fingers brush mine, barely, and it shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. It roots me.

I climb in silently, and we drive back without words, but with everything unspoken hanging in the air. Heavy. Electric. Dangerous.

And beneath it all, gratitude. It’s been so long since I truly felt protected and safe. What does that even say about me and my life?

By the time we pull up to the estate, the sun is dipping low enough to stain the sky blood-orange. It’s the kind of glow that tricks you into thinking everything’s soft and safe when it’s anything but. God, I hate winters. I sit in the passenger seat of Silas’s SUV, my fingers loosely gripping the bouquet in my lap, the wildflowers now starting to wilt at the edges. The coffee cup’s empty. My stomach’s tight, and my head’s not far behind.

Silas doesn’t say a word as he puts the car in park. He just sits there, his hands still on the wheel, his eyes forward like he’s watching something I can’t see.

I glance over at him. “You coming?”

His jaw flexes. That unreadable expression locks back into place, like shutters slamming over windows.

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