Page 89 of Her Soul to Own

“I’m not asking you to let me in,” I say. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But just know I’m not leaving.”

She looks up at me again. And there it is, just for a split second, the Lyra who always laughs with wild joy and moves like trouble with a heartbeat.

Then she closes the door again. Gently. But this time, she doesn’t lock it.

I stare at the wood grain, my pulse pounding like I just came out of a firefight.

I could knock again. I could force my way through the cracks she’s trying to seal. But she deserves a choice.

So I turn around.

I force my body to walk. Quiet and controlled. I take one step at a time down the path, my hand cold from the absence of Lyra’s touch..

If she doesn’t want protection… I’ll become the consequence.

And God help the bastards who try to touch her again.

Chapter 21 – Silas – Sharks in Midnight Waters

I can’t believe I’m sitting in an abandoned parking lot in the middle of the goddamn night. It’s the perfect place to get mugged, stabbed, or abducted by a cult of influencer-worshipping serial killers. The shadows are thick enough to choke on, pooling around the Dodge like spilled ink. This is the kind of place where secrets change hands with blood money, and nobody hears you scream over the sound of a dying streetlamp.

The air stinks of rust, stale beer, and asphalt that’s seen more broken promises than tire tracks. It’s the kind of quiet that sets your nerves on edge, twitchy and coiled, like the world’s holding its breath waiting for the next scream. It’s romantic, maybe, if you’re into noir fantasies about betrayal, blackmail, and revenge delivered from the backseat of a slowly dying car.

The air also reeks of rust and wet concrete, and the almost dead streetlamp flickers like it’s trying to give me a seizure, casting the occasional ghost of light across the cracked asphalt. I’m in the Dodge with the engine off, tucked into the shadows like I was born here. I wear a black cap pulled low and a hoodie zipped halfway over a Henley that’s endured more firefights than fashion shows. My laptop balances on one knee, whirring with surveillance feeds. My camera lens is aimed dead center through a grimy windshield at the white BMW two spots over.

Inside the Bimmer are Harper and Declan, Lyra’s fake friends turned backstabbers of the year. Glamorous, sociopathic, and the kind of people who’d smile for the cameras while digging a grave behind the scenes.

Declan’s in a jacket worth more than the Dodge, tapping his fingers on the wheel like he’s practicing to snort confidence lines off it while Harper’s dripping in skin-tight malice, her hair slicked back like she’s about to strut down a catwalk of corpses. They’re arguing, their bodies sharp with edginess. Declan’s posture says control, but Harper’s unraveling, and her hands slash the air like she’s trying to erase something.

My phone’s propped on the console, Lyra’s bedroom feed glowing. She’s sleeping. Finally. With one arm curled under her cheek, her lips slightly parted. Even in nightmares, she looks like art. And I… well, I stare like a sinner in church.

Then I hit record. The mic picks up faint voices from the BMW. It’s not much, but enough. The rest I can make out by reading their lips.

Harper:“It’s too early.”

Declan:“She’s losing followers. It’s working.”

Harper leans in closer, her voice low and certain:“Evander will cave soon.”

That last line hits me like a sniper round to the ribs.

Evander?What the hell? That can’t be right. Evander can’t be working with these cowards. He doesn’t bend or break. He orchestrates.

We’re talking about the same man who raised Lyra like a living PR strategy—a trophy with a heartbeat. Every inch of his image is curated, his every word calculated.

He’s not some fragile old man lost in a decanter of Bordeaux. Evander doesn’t get played. He plays.

So if Harper and Declan think he’s working with them… they’re mistaken. He’s in the game. I think it’s worse; he’s been in it the whole time.

Suddenly, everything smells like smoke. Not panic or damage control, but strategy.

This isn’t manipulation. This reeks of conspiracy.

If Evander’s involved, then this isn’t just a scandal. It’s a move. A measured one.

Evander isn’t collapsing under pressure. He’s the one who’s applying it.

He’s the kind of bastard who burns down his own house just to see who runs from the fire. And I’ve got a sick feeling we’re all already breathing in the ash.

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