Page 65 of Her Soul to Own

I opened the folder and skimmed the first page. Lyra Vane. Her photo was clipped to the top corner. The kind of photo you get from a private jet manifest, not a social profile.

“Fine,” I replied, flipping to the security assessment.

“And you don’t interfere in her personal life,” he added, his tone sharper.

I looked up. “If her personal life is the source of the threat, I’ll need to.”

Evander’s eyes didn’t blink. “No. You protect her without disrupting her routine. Her friends, her parties, her… whatever the hell she does with her time. You stay invisible unless there’s an immediate threat.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It is now,” Evander snapped. “You think this town gives a shit about what happens to her? They smile and take her pictures, but the minute she stumbles, they’ll bury her. You interfere, and they’ll know she’s under surveillance. That’ll isolate her even more.”

I paused, noting the unusual sharpness in his voice. “She’s already isolated.”

Evander looked away, his jaw tight. “Then don’t take the rest of her life away.”

A brief moment passed before he folded his hands.

“After Isola died…” His voice dropped. “She’s been clinging to routine. To people who might not deserve her, but they’re hers. It’s all she has got left.”

I didn’t say anything, but something in my chest locked tight. Evander looked at me. We never talked about Isola. If he was mentioning her, then it meant he was serious about this.

And the way he said it, like there was more—something unspoken between grief and guilt—burned a hole in my gut. It would’ve actually made me feel sad if I didn’t know what a monster Evander is and what he did to Isola. He came to me for Lyra’s protection for a reason. Because he knew I’d never let anything happen to Isola’s daughter. He probably also knows I’ve been keeping tabs on the girl since Isola’s death.

He handed me a key.

“Keep her alive, Creed. But let her believe she’s free.”

I could drag Lyra away from all this. I could shut her inside the estate and never let her out again. And maybe she’d be safe. But she’d wither.

She’s not built for cages. Lyra Vane is and always has been chaos in silk. A free spirit with iron in her bones and rebellion in her blood. She doesn’t just walk into rooms; sheownsthem. And Evander’s right. This town may be poisonous, but it’shers.

And now I see how deep the rot goes.

Harper and Declan aren’t just socialites playing influence games. They’re part of something larger. Coordinated, funded, calculated. A slow-drip sabotage hidden in designer gowns and rooftop parties.

And Lyra’s the one they’re isolating and breaking down. The same way you boil a frog slowly… so she doesn’t notice until it’s too late.

And I’m supposed to watch.

To let her keep dancing through this town while wolves pull her strings from the shadows.

No fucking way.

But I can’t break the rules yet. Not until I know who’s really holding the leash. Not until I’m ready to cut it.

XXX

I don’t leave the room for two days.

I mean, Itechnicallydo… to piss, grab coffee, and snarl at anyone who dares try to talk to me. But emotionally? Mentally? I’m 100% locked in like a war general reviewing troop movements, except my battlefield is made of Wi-Fi trails, metadata, and bitchy influencer group chats.

I haven’t seen Lyra once. And that’son purpose.

Because if I see her, if she walks past the surveillance hub door barefoot, wearing one of those oversized cashmere sweaters that swallow her whole, I’ll forget how to type, forget the risk, forget everything except how she tastes when she’s sleepy and lets her guard down.

So I keep the door locked. I keep the footage rolling, and I keep digging.

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