Page 8 of Her Soul to Own

She gets it every night at the same time. The same twitch of her left hand, the same delayed breath when she sits up. Trauma’s got a fingerprint, and hers is etched into her REM cycle.

I could block it. I could turn off the mic and give her space.

But I don’t.

Because I need to know the shape of her fear.

If I’m going to keep her safe, I need to understand what breaks her. And what keeps her together.

It’s not just intel. It’s art.

I move to the board mounted behind me and scribble a few notes under her name:

Left-handed (dominant when stressed)

Nightmares at the 2:50–3:10 a.m. window

Avoids eye contact with her father unless pissed

Keeps the closet light on but tells the staff to shut it off before bed

She’s layered, but she’s readable. She’s like a puzzle that wants to be solved, just not too quickly.

My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Evander.

“Report,” it says.

I ignore it.

Because right now, she’s moving toward the window again. Expecting to see me there like yesterday, but I’m not there tonight. I’m too busy following her movements from down here.

The door slams open like a shotgun blast.

My fork doesn’t pause.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Lyra storms into the dining hall in a storm-grey robe that clings to her thighs like a secret. Her hair is still wet, long dark waves dripping onto the marble like she drowned someone in the shower and walked away without flinching.

If she did, I’d be impressed.

She’s fire, barely leashed, and that robe might as well be armor with the way she wears it—tight belt, high chin, her eyes full of murder.

---