Page 61 of Her Soul to Own

“Is she seriously seeing that… security guy?”

“You mean the ex-military one with the murderous eyes?”

“Yeah,him. He’s hot in a terrifying way.”

Another flashbulb. Another curated laugh. I don’t blink. I don’t let them see any reaction. But I hear every word. Of course they know about Silas—this town feeds on gossip like it’s oxygen. He’s the kind of person that’s hard to hide, all shadow, precision, and simmering violence. The day I stepped out of theVane estate with him behind me in black tactical gear was the day the whispers ignited. And I haven’t exactly been subtle about keeping him close.

I glide through the bar like a slow-burning fuse, the hem of my gown whispering across velvet. Eyes follow me like moths chasing a flame. I know he’s watching, though not from a corner. Not from the building. Fromeverywhere.

I stop beside a minor socialite, Ethan something. He’s tall, sweet, and forgettable in a way that would’ve worked better if I were looking for calm. His suit is tailored to perfection, his jaw just scruffy enough to seem “dangerous,” and his eyes are already deciding how close he can get.

“Lyra,” he says, his voice rich with faux-casual charm, “you look like sin in this dress.”

I offer him a faint smile, then reach out and smooth the lapel of his jacket with lingering fingers. “Sin always wears this color,” I reply saucily.

He chuckles, emboldened. “Want to grab a drink at my place after this?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. His offer isn’t tempting.Heisn’t tempting. What’s tempting? The idea of someone who wouldn’t tear me open. Someone who wouldn’t leave bruises under the skin or fire in my veins. Someone who doesn’t know how to wreck me the way Silas does.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Iwantto be wrecked.

Before I can answer, a server approaches with a drink on a silver tray. It’s pale pink and served in a frosted coupe, garnished with a sugared rim and a rose petal. Instagram-perfect. My hand wraps around it by reflex, but the second I lift it to my nose, I freeze.

It’s too sharp. Not sweet at all.

“Something wrong?” Ethan asks, his brow lifting.

I smile thinly and shake my head. “Changed my mind.”

I wave it off, place it back on the tray without a sip, and flag another server. “Sparkling water. No lemon.”

My pulse is elevated now, though not from fear but from that familiar adrenaline-laced awareness. The kind that used to hit me in clubs, at charity galas, and on the red carpet when Iknewthings were about to go sideways.

The kind that screams at me tostay sharp.

I take a slow sip of water, my eyes scanning the bar. All around me, people are watching, smiling, whispering, pretending. But onlyoneof them sees me.

And he’s not in the room. He’s everywhere.

And I know, if I so much as stumble, Silas will be there. Not like a hero but like a storm.

By the time the night drags on toward its blurry, glittering end, my feet are aching, and my champagne flute has been refilled at least four times, though I haven’t touched a single drop. I’ve laughed, twirled, and let flashbulbs capture me like prey, yet that knot in my stomach still never loosens.

I’ve danced with at least six different men. Harper kept count like it was a sport and posed for three dozen photos. I’ve played the part beautifully. Too beautifully. Everyone around me is in various stages of drunk, slurring through goodbyes and fumbling with their coat checks.

But I’m just tired.

I haven’t partied like this in ages. Not since before the letters. Before Silas.

He hasn’t appeared even once tonight, and yet he’s haunted every move I’ve made. Every time I laughed too loud, every time a man leaned in too close, and every time I looked up and felt his eyes in the dark.

I know what I’ll find waiting for me before I even step into the town car.

Sure enough, the moment I settle into the leather seat, there he is.Silas. Leaning against the driver’s side door and talking in low tones to the chauffeur. His broad shoulders are wrapped in a tailored black coat, with crisp lapels sharp as his jawline. Black slacks, black button-up, open at the throat, and sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the tattoos winding up his forearms. Tactical, controlled, and utterly lethal. Also absolutely fucking beautiful.

My thighs clench, and my chest squeezes. Because this man doesn’t just watch me. Heownsthe space around me.

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