Page 94 of Her Soul to Own

She hasn’t slept. Not really. Not since the video. Not since the world turned on her like wolves catching the scent of blood.

And I haven’t been able to get close.

She asked for space. No, she demanded it, like a queen drawing her line in the sand. And I’m the idiot knight still standing just beyond it with my sword drawn, waiting for the enemy to come.

I don’t go to her room. I don’t text. I don’t knock.

Instead, I grab the black satchel from the trunk and start walking.

The garden path is lit by soft, useless fairy lights. I bypass them, stepping into the shadows where the security lights don’t quite reach. Gravel crunches under my boots, and the wind cuts sideways. All I can think about is how much I want to see her. Just see her. Even if she won’t meet my eyes.

I stop at the edge of the woods, quiet and unmoving.

Then I drop to one knee and dig.

The signal receiver is older tech—ex-military, barely traceable, and completely illegal. I anchor it in the soil and splice the fiber into the underground line I laid when I first took this job. Just in case.

Always just in case.

She wants to be left alone? Fine. I’ll respect that. But I won’t leave her blind.

This device will feed me everything: pings, texts, browser behavior, and social media triggers. If anything moves near her digital trail again, I’ll know. And the next time someone tries to burn her down, I’ll be the goddamn firewall.

I cover the receiver, brush the dirt from my hands, and glance up at her window.

It’s still lit. Still hers. Still out of reach.

I should walk away. But instead, I stand there with my eyes locked on that slice of golden light and think about the thousand things I’ll never say.

“You don’t have to burn alone.”

“I’ve already killed for you. Bleed with me.”

But I don’t say any of it.

I just whisper her name to the wind like it might carry it better than I can. “Lyra. Let me in.”

Because the storm is still building.

And I’ve already chosen my side.

Chapter 24 – Lyra - Perfume, Poison, and Partial Truths

I stand barefoot on the cool marble floor of the Vane Estate library, staring at a shelf lined with my mother’s journals and favorite books.

The journals are slim and leather-bound, each one tied with a sleek cord like secrets begging not to be disturbed. They smell faintly of dried jasmine and old grief, a name that’s buried deep.

Inside are her poems and her favorite passages from forgotten novels and ancient texts, fragments of a woman who lived half in this world and half in her own.

But not the real secrets. Not the ones that matter. Those aren’t here.

Outside, the storm presses against the glass like it wants in. I know the feeling. Because I’ve already let it in.

I’m wearing one of Silas’s shirts that was left in my room. It’s oversized, faded black, and smells like his cologne. It slides off one shoulder, clinging in places I don’t want to think about. I tell myself I grabbed it because it was close. Because it was clean. Not because I miss him. Not because I haven’t seen him in days, and it’s slowly driving me insane. We’re living under the same roof, but it feels like we’re miles apart.

My phone buzzes on the reading table beside me, jolting me out of my spiral like a slap.

It’s a message from Zara, and it says,“Blake wants to meet. Neutral ground. Please go.”

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