Page 98 of Her Soul to Own

And Zara.

Jesus. Zara. The girl who once held my hair back while I cried tequila into a yacht toilet. The girl who used to send me memes at 3 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep, who knew about the NDA, who knew about Harper. But said nothing.

Who the hell do I even trust now?

Silas.

My heart clenches. I don’t even know what he is to me anymore. He’s become my protector, my tormentor, and my anchor, all at once. He’s the only one who hasn’t flinched, the only one who didn’t look away when the worst of me was exposed. But even he has secrets. Even he disappears when it hurts.

And I… I’m so fucking tired. Tired of fighting, tired of faking, and tired of pretending I’m not breaking under the stress of everything.

I press a hand to my chest. My heart’s beating too fast and too hard, like it’s trying to punch its way out.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

I was supposed to build empires, not burn in the foundations of someone else’s lies. I was supposed to control the narrative, not be reduced to a headline with a clickbait thumbnail.

The wine in my glass tilts dangerously, and I jolt up, barely catching it. “Get it together, Lyra,” I sigh, whispering to the dark.

But the dark doesn’t answer. It just stares back, waiting.

And then I hear the sound of boots outside.

I freeze when I hear a creak on the floorboard near the window, the one that always gives him away.

My breath catches. And I know.

Even before the door opens, I know it’s Silas.

“Everyone wants to protect me until it’s inconvenient,” I mutter under my breath, not sure if I’m talking to the shadows or myself.

Just then, the knob turns, and the door opens.

Silas steps inside. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask for permission. I don’t have the courage to ask him to leave. I just know I don’t want to be alone any longer.

His hair is damp from the shower, with water droplets still clinging to the ends and trailing down his temples. The shirt he’s wearing—gray, thin, and clinging like a second skin—is soaked through at the collar and plastered against his chest and shoulders. His broad, solid, and familiar shoulders.

God, he looks like something out of a dream I’m not allowed to have. And I hate that just seeing him makes my lungs forget how to work.

“If you came here to tell me I’m being dramatic…” My voice is sharp, a defense mechanism carved out of weeks of betrayal and despair.

Silas doesn’t stop. He just closes the door behind him, slow and quiet, like he’s afraid to startle something wounded. “I came to make sure you weren’t alone,” he says in a low and rough voice.

I look away. Of course he did. Of course he fucking did. That’s what he always does. He shows up when the damage is done and then acts like holding me upright will stop me from falling apart.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I murmur, my fingers tightening on the glass. “I need the truth.”

He’s quiet. Then he moves.

One step. Two.

And suddenly, he’s in front of me, tall and water-soaked and ruinous. The air around him feels alive with the electricity I’ve missed more than I want to admit.

He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. His movement is light, like a whisper, as if touching me too hard might shatter what’s left. He tucks the strand behind my ear and looks at me.

My breath stutters.

It’s been days, maybe even longer, since I let anyone get close and let myself feel anything that wasn’t rage, exhaustion,or hollow fucking dread. But with him here, right here and close enough that I can smell his cologne, I remember what it’s like to want again.

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