Page 6 of Her Soul to Own

Five years. I’ve been haunted by this nightmare for five goddamn years. Like clockwork. Like a curse carved into my sleep.

My therapist, Dr. Kellerman, bless her well-meaning bullshit, once told me that the brain sometimes erases the faces of our abusers. That it’s a survival tactic. A way of protecting us from what we’re not ready to confront. Except Iwantto confront it. I want to remember. I want toseehim. Because maybe then I can stop waking up like this. Maybe then I can stop being afraid of shadows and back doors and the fucking sound of boots in the dark.

But every night, his face is just… smoke.

I scrub my hands over my face and swing my legs out of bed. The air is icy against my skin. I pad over to the window like the masochist I apparently am.

The SUV is still there. Parked in the gravel like a monolith. Its lights are off. It’s silent.

And under the trees, barely visible through the fog and storm-slick night, ishim.

Silas Creed.

He’s standing there like he’s part of the landscape. Like the storm doesn’t touch him, and he’swaitingfor something.Is he a fucking psycho? Shouldn’t he be asleep?

He’s not moving or even blinking. He’s just watching this house like he already owns it.

Ishouldclose the curtains, crawl back into bed, and curse my father for hiring this man in the first place. That would be the sane thing. The safe thing. But instead, some dark, twisted corner of my mind decides to keep me rooted to the spot, watching him… until I’m watchinghimwatchme.

Because part of me, some dark, fucked-up shard of me, wants to be seen like this.

Wants to be claimed.

Even if it costs me everything.

Chapter 2 – Silas - The Unwelcome Intrusion

There’s something poetic about installing a surveillance cage beneath a billionaire’s estate.

If you’re into irony.

I’m not. But I notice it.

The basement under the east wing is supposed to be a gym. Instead, it has become a nerve center. A place with cold concrete, exposed pipes, and a humidifier that’s doing jack shit. But with the right tech and a few hours alone, it’s exactly what I need.

Evander’s firewalls are outdated. Of course they are. Corporate arrogance always assumes its money can outthink hackers, but I bypass them in twenty-three minutes flat using an encrypted network I built in the Middle East after my unit got bombed halfway into a black site.

“Thanks for the skeleton key, Vic,” I mutter, tapping in the last override.

The control room comes to life like Frankenstein’s monster, cables hissing as they settle into place. One wall lights up with standard black-and-white camera feeds, some enhanced with thermal overlays I sourced from a retired CIA buddy who owed me. Another monitor floods with audio streams, tuned to pick up whispered arguments and midnight breakdowns. And then there’s the blueprint, now layered with active GPS pings, every inch of the estate becoming a map of my new hunting grounds.

I type in a few commands, backdoor the estate’s entire network, and redirect all data to my secure satellite uplink. The security infrastructure here was built by someone who thought“two-factor authentication” was cutting-edge. I replace it with a system that rewrites its own code every twelve hours. Nothing gets in or out without my say-so.

If I were a better man, I might feel bad about invading the girl’s privacy.

But I’m not.

And she’s not just anyone.

Lyra Vane.

She’s careless, but definitely not stupid.

Her phone, which I connected to my computer by installing an application while she was asleep, unlocked on the first try. Her passcode was her birthday. Cute, but a rookie move. Either she thinks no one would dare snoop, or she’s too busy setting Instagram on fire to care. Honestly, it’s a miracle no one’s leaked a full dossier on her already. I’ve seen higher walls on abandoned compounds in war zones.

I start parsing through her digital breadcrumbs: text messages that read like well-armed stand-up routines. Everything is a punchline or a misdirection. The vulnerability hides in the quietness between replies. Group chats with titles like “Hellspawn Coven” and “This Is Why We Drink.” The kind of stuff that screams, “I hate the world but also, please love me.”

Not a single message rings true without a mask attached.

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