Page 54 of Her Soul to Own

“…victim was found a few yards from the vehicle with severe injuries to the face and ribs…”

Then the photo appears.

Him.

The guy from the market. The one with the slicked-back hair and smug face. The one who touched my wrist as though I owed him something, who got too close and said too much.

I freeze, my blood turning cold.

“…no valuables taken, and no witnesses have come forward. Police say the nature of the injuries suggests premeditation. A message, perhaps...”

Their voices blur together.

My heart is pounding now, not with fear but recognition. Certainty. I don’t need the cops to investigate. I already know who did it.

Silas.

Of course it was him. The way he looked at me after the guy walked off. The calm in his voice when he said, “This is the last time he’ll do something like that.”

I feel it then, the bitter, electric chill curling in my gut. It’s not disgust or shock. It’s something much, much darker. Satisfaction.

I glance sideways at my father. He’s still watching the screen like it’s any other report. No reaction. No hint of guilt or concern. Just a slow sip of his drink.

But me?

I can’t stop the smirk pulling at my lips.

Because Silas Creed didn’t just protect me. He made a fucking statement.

And I shouldn’t like it.

But I do.

God help me. I fuckingdo.

Chapter 12 – Silas – Red Right Hand

I enter the estate through the back door because the front is for presentable people. My hands are stained red, my knuckles split, with blood under my nails. It’s not all mine, but I’m not running a DNA test.

The security camera near the mudroom blinks. I raise my middle finger to it like an old friend and shove the door shut behind me with my boot. The lull in here is almost peaceful if you ignore the whole sociopath vibe I’ve got going on. But hey, what’s a little bloodshed between people?

I move to the sink and turn the water on hot. I hiss when my fingers burn as the blood runs down the drain in twisting pink rivulets. My right hand throbs. I might’ve jammed a knuckle when his jaw crunched like a bag of chips. But it was worth it. Ten times over.

See, there are certain lines you don’t cross. And making Lyra uncomfortable? That’s the kind of line you can’t come back from.

He didn’t know who he was dealing with. Most predators don’t. They think they’re at the top of the food chain until something hungrier shows up. I’m the hunger. I’m the last fucking thing you see when your luck runs out.

It wasn’t hard to find him again. These small-town types are creatures of habit. I tailed him for an hour and watched him nurse a cheap beer in a dive bar like he hadn’t tried to touch something that doesn’t belong to him.

Then I waited.

When he finally stumbled out, swaggering like a dog who thinks its piss marks territory, I was there.

“Hey.”

He turned, his eyes narrowing. “You lost or something, buddy?”

Buddy. Christ. These guys always think they’re the main character.

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