Page 55 of Her Soul to Own

“You touched something that’s mine.”

He blinked, then scoffed. “You her boyfriend or something? Look, man, she didn’t say she had a…”

I punched him mid-sentence.

His head snapped sideways, and he hit the concrete like a sack of meat. He tried to scramble back, his palms scraping on asphalt. “Fucking psycho!”

I let him crawl. Gave him ten whole seconds.

Then, I dragged him by the collar and slammed him against the hood of his car. The impact made a loud metallic thunk, his breath leaving him in a wheeze. “You don’t get to look at her. Not like that. You don’t get to speak to her. Ever.”

“You’re insane!”

“Maybe. But at least I’m not a predator.” I leaned in, close enough for him to feel the heat of my breath. “You cornered her. You made her flinch. That’s enough for me.”

Then I drew the gun from my holster and pressed the barrel to his forehead. His pupils blew wide with panic.

“You don’t deserve to walk the same earth,” I murmured in a low and deadly voice. “But killing you here would put a spotlight on me. And I don’t do spotlights.”

He whimpered, his legs trembling like a cornered animal. Pathetic. I didn’t hesitate.

My fist slammed into his ribs with a sickening crack, and his bone gave way like rotted wood. He dropped with a grunt,his knees buckling beneath him. But I wasn’t done. Not even close.

I followed him down. Fists. Elbows. Boots. I became a storm of violence, pure and unrelenting. Blood sprayed from his nose and gushed from his split lip, and one of his eyes was already swelling shut, puffed and purple. He sobbed,sobbed, his hands up and voice cracking as he begged me to stop.

I didn’t care. I didn’t evenhearhim.

My breath came in ragged gulps, my fists slick with blood. His or mine, I couldn’t tell. My knuckles were raw and throbbing, the skin flayed open. Only when I could barely feel my arms anymore did I grab him by the collar and hurl him to the pavement like discarded trash.

He writhed, gasping and dragging himself toward his car like a slug leaking oil. Every inch of movement looked like agony. He shouldn’t have been able to walk, let alone drive.

But somehow, he got his car’s engine started.

I let him. I watched him fumble the gear shift with trembling fingers as blood stained his wheel. I let him believe he was escaping. That it was over.

Then, I followed him.

I tailed him with my headlights off at first, just a shadow in his rearview mirror. When I turned them on, I kept them bright, flashing in intervals. I crept up close enough to kiss his bumper. He panicked, weaving across the dark, winding road like a drunk. His car jerked violently to one side. His tires hit the gravel edge, and I knew he was seconds from losing it.

One more nudge. One more swerve.

And then, he spun out.

His car skidded, tires screaming, metal grinding. It slammed into the ditch with a crunch so loud that it echoed down the empty road like a death rattle. Steam billowed fromthe hood, and the windshield was a spiderweb of cracks. The driver’s side door hung open, swinging slightly.

I killed the engine and sat there, just watching and waiting. Breathing hard and waiting to see if he’d crawl out again.

I quietly hoped he’d try, so I could finish what I started. I’d played this game before, way too many times. And I always knew when to stop the chase.

I finish rinsing the blood off and get in the shower. It burns when I wash my body, but it feels good at the same time. Once I’m done, I reach for my towel. My reflection in the stainless-steel backsplash looks tired but not guilty. Never guilty. But tired.

The tracker I embedded in that choker is live—green and pulsing on my phone screen upstairs. She’s in the living room. Good. Safe.

She doesn’t know what I’ve done, but soon enough, she’ll find out. It’ll be up to her to decide whether she wants to stay or run.

The darker part of me hopes shestays. Because I want her to know just how far I’ll go.

Lyra Vane isn’t just some client. She’s a fucking wildfire. And I’d rather burn with her than watch her get snuffed out by the world.

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