Page 75 of Her Soul to Own

He didn’t even flinch.

He just looked me in the eye and said, “You want to protect something, Creed? Protect the daughter. That’s all that matters now.”

And then he fired me, clean and clinical, with just a signed NDA, a fat severance, and a line in the sand.

I left, and I didn’t look back.

Until years later.

Evander suddenly reached out again, out of the blue, through encrypted channels, like he always does. He offered metriple my old rate and said Lyra needed protection. He said the past needed closure.

I almost didn’t answer. But then I remembered my promise to Isola to always protect her. Lyra was a part of her, so naturally, I had to do what was right.

I started looking into her even more than I already was. She was all grown up now, with hair wild like her mother’s, and eyes full of mischief and fire. The resemblance was more than uncanny; it was surgical.

And in that moment, I knew I’d take the job. Because if I couldn’t save Isola… I’d damn well save her daughter.

Noah and I never spoke again. Not until tonight. Not until now.

He stands in front of me like a walking guilt trip with the same squared jaw and deadpan eyes. “You’re her detail again,” he says.

“I never stopped being,” I answer.

His jaw ticks. “You think he brought you back for Lyra?”

“I think he brought me back because he knows what I lost the last time.”

Noah crosses his arms. “You’re not the only one who lost her, Creed.”

We stand there for a beat, years of memories coiled like a bomb between us.

“I wasn’t fast enough to save her,” I say quietly. “But I won’t make that mistake with Lyra.”

He nods once. “Then we’re on the same side.”

For now.

I stand just inside the doorway, surveying the room and taking in the crowd like a hawk scanning its territory. This isn’t my usual scene. Hell, this is more chaotic than a warzone, but I’ve learned to adapt to the battlefield of luxury and power. The air smells like expensive wine and overpriced perfume, likesomething you could taste and still feel filthy afterward. The glow of chandeliers above catches every polished surface, and I swear, if I squint hard enough, I can almost see the desperation reflected in their faces.

I could stay here all night, hidden in plain sight, watching the players move and listening to their meaningless chatter, the clink of champagne flutes, and the dull thrum of meaningless small talk. I’ve learned more about human nature in these rooms than I care to admit. These people? They think they have power because they have wealth. But I know better.

They’re all just puppets. And I’m the one pulling the strings.

I shift my attention to the food—finger sandwiches, caviar, and canapés with so many layers of unnecessary fluff that it’s a wonder anyone eats more than a bite. The servers are circulating, dressed in black, smiling too brightly, and acting like they don’t know their whole purpose is to keep these people fat and happy until they can go back to their miserable little lives in the morning.

Then I spot her.Lyra.

She steps into the ballroom, her aura crashing through the scene like a thunderstorm after a clear sky. For a second, I don’t even see her fully. I just see the way the room quiets, like everything stops breathing for a second. She’s dressed in the daring mini dress that barely covers her ass, the fabric shimmering under the lights. The dress hugs her body like it was made for her, every curve and every line emphasized to perfection. The updo she’s chosen is a stark contrast to the disheveled fire I just saw behind closed doors. I want to fuck her and make her scream my name and come harder than she just did. But the moment she walks into the room, the strain I’ve been carrying snaps into something sharper.

Her eyes scan the crowd, and even though her face is painted with the sharp, confident smile she’s perfected over the years, I see it. The hint of exhaustion behind her eyes. She’s walking into this den of snakes with the same grace she walks into everything. But underneath that? She’s shattered.

She knows it. I know it.

And every fucking person here can see it too.

My hand clenches my glass, and I step away from the shadows. I let the crowd swallow me as I casually start to circle the perimeter, watching her as she’s approached by Harper and Declan. Harper flashes a smile too wide to be sincere, just like the last time I saw her, but I can see through it. She’s too nervous to make eye contact, like she’s the one under the spotlight, not Lyra.

Declan isn’t much better. He stands too close, his hand casually placed on Harper’s lower back, but I can see the way he watches Lyra. There’s hunger in his eyes, a different kind of hunger than what I’ve seen in some men. This one is dangerous. He’s calculating, sizing her up like a predator deciding which part of his prey will taste the sweetest.

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