Page 99 of Her Soul to Own

Right now, I don’t want safety or peace, I just want him. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. Because if I do, I’ll break.

So I just sit there. And I let the quiet wrap around us like a confession.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore,” I whisper, not looking at him.

Silas’s eyes don’t leave mine when he replies, “Be the one who survives it. I’ll be right here. You’re not broken, Lyra.”

I let out a shaking breath. His words hit like a match, just enough to remind me that I’m still flammable.

And in that moment, I’m not Lyra Vane, scandal magnet and PR disaster. I’m just a girl who wants someone to stay. And Silas stays.

My breath stutters. The air in the room feels heavy, ripe with all the words we haven’t said, with everything we’ve been circling around for days. And now, it snaps.

“Then show me I’m not broken,” I whisper, my voice frayed with need and trembling with the weight of everything I’ve buried.

I set the wine glass down on the dresser without looking. The crystal clinks softly, but my eyes are only on him. I step back until the backs of my legs meet the bed. “Then show me that I’m not broken,” I whisper, my voice already wrecked from want and desire.

Silas doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at me—like I’m a flame he’s willing to burn for—says everything. He shrugs off his coat and then his shirt. Each movement is slow and controlled, like he’s disarming a bomb, and I’m the live wire.

The Silas I know has vanished. In his place is a man radiating menace, his eyes glinting with a hunger that both terrifies and thrills me. It’s still him, I know it is, but this version of Silas is unrestrained, a shadow self that craves my fear as much as my desire. The realization sends a shiver down my spine, making my skin prickle with anticipation.

“On the carpet,” he commands, his voice low, a growl that brooks no argument. My body moves before my mind catches up, sliding off the couch, my knees sinking into the plush carpet. The rain outside hammers the roof, a primal drumbeat that echoes the throb in my veins. Silas looms behind me, his presence a storm pressing against my back. His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging in with a possessive intensity that makes my breath hitch.

He crouches behind me, the heat of his body kissing the bare skin of my back, and then his hand finds my hip—firm, grounding, and so possessive that it makes my throat go dry. His other hand follows, trailing up my spine like he’s tracing every notch, every vertebra, and memorizing the shape of my surrender.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. His voice is different now, almost unfamiliar. “On your knees for me.”

A flush steals over my cheeks, crawling down my neck like a second skin. I don’t speak. I couldn’t if I tried.

Silas leans in. I feel the ghost of his breath on my ear before I hear his voice again. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

God. My whole body tightens.

“Yes,” I whisper. It comes out broken. Honest.

The weight of his hand settles on the back of my neck. Not cruel but not soft either. Just enough to remind me he’s there. That I’m here. That I chose this.

“Then don’t move.”

He rises behind me. I hear the low slide of a belt unbuckling, the metallic clink as it’s pulled free. My heart stutters, and my thighs clench on instinct. There’s something primal about the sound that speaks to every forbidden part of me that’s been locked away for far too long.

I hear the shift of denim, the rustle of fabric. A breath escapes me when something cool and hard skims down the length of my spine—a flat edge, metal maybe, trailing lower until it rests at the small of my back. My eyes widen when I realize what it is. A fucking knife. Silas presses it there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make me feel it.

To remind me who’s in control.

“Do you trust me, Lyra?” he asks.

I nod, but his hand slides back into my hair and fists gently.

“Say it.”

“I trust you,” I breathe.

“Good.” His voice is a low rasp of approval.

The knife, the cool metal, remains on my naked skin as his other hand strokes down my spine again, slow and reverent. It slowly starts tracing the curve of my ass, spreading me just enough to make me squirm.

“You’re trembling,” he notes.

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