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The road to his house doesn’t show up on maps.

It snakes through pine and magnolia, then dips into shadow. Gravel crunches beneath the wheels of his blacked-out Charger—every inch of it matte, low-slung, and muscled like the man behind the wheel. The gate doesn’t creak. It opens on command, coded, unseen. He keeps it that way. Cameras blink red from the trees, tucked where eyes don’t wander unless they’ve got something to hide.

The house itself rises like a secret: matte black siding, obsidian wood, steel-lined corners. No porch chairs. No flowers. Just trimmed grass, smoke in the air, and a pitbull named Whisper chained to stillness.

Inside, it’s cooler than expected. Not cold, but still. The air smells like cedarwood and firewood and cigar smoke that’s clung to the walls like memory. The lights are low—always low. Just enough to see, never enough to expose.

Velvet blackout curtains hang heavy over the windows, drowning daylight before it ever touches his skin. A single speaker hums from somewhere hidden—Bobby Womack, gravel-sweet and haunted, drifting slow over concrete floors polished to obsidian shine.

This isn’t a home. This is a den.

Smoke moves through it like he was born here, though he wasn’t. His bare feet land soft on a dark rug that stretches like a shadow across the hallway. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, hangs it on a hook beside a single packed duffel bag—always ready. His gun is already inside. His backup phone, too. He never unpacks it.

He doesn’t need to. He’s never off the clock.

A row of jackets—bomber, black denim, hooded zip-up—hang beside the door like armor. Beneath them, only three pairs of shoes on the metal rack: gym sneakers, black Timbs, and a pair of Nike slides worn smooth from repetition. No guests. No women’s heels. No mess.

Just him.

In the kitchen, everything’s matte black. Cabinets. Appliances. The fridge hums low. A bottle of Uncle Nearest 1856 Premium Whiskey rests beside a French press, untouched but ready. Inside the freezer, glass-clear cubes sit waiting like polished ice bullets. A drawer on the left holds cast iron pans, perfectly seasoned. The drawer to the right?

Blunts, grinder, silver lighter, pre-rolls. A tin of soft baby wipes.

He doesn’t label anything. He just knows where it is.

The living room dips into silence, sunken leather couch spread wide, built to take a body—his or hers or both. A turntable gleams under a focused spotlight, with vinyls stacked like scripture: D’Angelo. Marvin. The Isley Brothers. Mama’s Gun.

There’s one piece of art on the wall—black-and-white, large, and centered: the back of a nude Black woman, faceless and arched, shoulder blades rising like wings. Strong. Tender. Untouched.

No one knows who she is.

Smoke does.

But he’ll never say.

His office is darker than the rest. A command center. Monitors line the wall—four curved screens, all powered down for now. The curtains in here never open. The candle on the desk burns cedar and oud, slow and expensive.

Only three things ever rest on the glass surface:

A sleek silver laptop.

An encrypted phone.

A Glock 19 in the drawer, matte and cold, waiting.

The room smells like concentration. Like tension. Like thoughts too heavy to say out loud. The wall behind him is lined with books: Baldwin. bell hooks. Morrison. Code manuals. Erotica. Street poetry. A collection of things that say exactly who he is—but only if you look long enough.

This is where he watches her.

His bedroom is soft in a way he doesn’t explain.

The walls are oxblood, rich and close. The bed is king-sized with a matte leather headboard and cotton sheets so smooth they whisper when he moves. The comforter is heavy. Smells like him—smoke, oud, and skin.

On the left nightstand:

A silver watch.

An ashtray.

A small pistol.

Black Tahitian Vanilla & Bourbon Oil, unopened.

On the right:

Two paperbacks.

A glass of water, half full.

A pack of incense with one stick gone.

Unused condoms, placed but not touched.

The mirror across from the bed is quiet. Not showy. It just sees.

Underneath the bed: a black lockbox.

No one’s ever opened it.

Not even him lately.

The bathroom is steam and slate, dim and clean.

The black tile drinks light. The rainfall shower hisses from above, built with a bench tucked in shadow. The towels are black and thick, folded exact. On the counter: beard oil, Tom Ford cologne, silver clippers, a sleek lighter.

One hidden drawer holds things that don’t get used often:

Silk blindfold. Rope. Lube. A card he never gave her.

He opens it. Closes it. Stares at himself in the mirror.

He presses lotion into his palms—a dark amber oil, thick and rich with spice and wood. Slow. Methodical. Fingertips to knuckles to the soft inside of the wrist. He smooths it into his chest, the sheen of it catching light like warm lacquer poured over muscle. Not a flaw in sight. Skin kissed bronze, taut across his shoulders, tattoo crawling over his ribs. Precision.

He doesn’t smile in the mirror.

Just watches. Still.

Like a man already mourning his self-control.

Not yet.

He moves back into the hall. Everything muffled.

Whisper pads beside him—black pitbull, silent, trained to obey. The dog doesn’t bark. Just watches. Just waits.

Smoke moves through the house the way wind moves through trees—felt more than seen. He doesn’t turn on lights. Doesn’t need to. His body already knows the layout. His mind’s already thinking ahead.

“Discipline’s everything.”

He tells himself that before every set in the gym.

He tells himself that before every job.

He tells himself that when he watches her—face glowing from the screen, soft and tired, whispering things she doesn’t mean but he believes anyway.

She doesn’t know he exists.

Not yet.

But this house? This silence? This den?

It’s already hers.

The alarm doesn’t sound.

It vibrates.

A soft hum beneath his pillow, enough to pull him from sleep without shattering it. The house stays dark. The clock reads 5:27 AM.

He doesn’t linger.

Smoke moves like a man built from ritual.

Before his feet hit the floor, he’s already cataloging the day, the weather, his muscle ache, the silent pulse of the security feed running through his mind. There’s no rush. No chaos. Just structure.

He stretches, bones clicking, the weight of the night sliding from his shoulders. His sheets smell faintly of oud and clean cotton. The dog is still asleep by the door, one ear raised, waiting.

The floor is cool beneath his feet. Concrete polished smooth, almost black. He crosses the room, pulls the blackout curtain back just enough to let a single blade of dawn light cut through the red of the walls. Outside, fog hangs low over the trees. The driveway disappears into it.

Silence. Always silence.

The Ritual

By 5:35, he’s in the kitchen.

A single mug. Black ceramic. No design. No color.

He pours his coffee from a French press, slow, careful— no sugar, no cream. His silver rings clink against the mug. The faint sound echoes through the house.

He stands by the counter, half-shadowed, half-awake, watching the steam rise. The smell of dark roast mixes with cedar and last night’s cigar smoke. His jaw is still rough from sleep.

He doesn’t check his phone yet. That comes later.

For now, the music.

He taps the Sonos panel and lets Al Green fill the room —warm, scratchy vinyl from the record player in the living room. “Simply Beautiful.” It hums low under the hum of the refrigerator.

His eyes close for a second. Breath in. Breath out.

Routine anchors him. Keeps him from unraveling.

The Gym Discipline

By 5:50, he’s gone.

The Charger purrs down the empty road—black on black, no headlights until he hits the main road.

The gym isn’t a franchise. It’s one of those industrial spaces on the city’s south side—concrete floors, iron racks, bare bulbs. No Wi-Fi. No posing mirrors.

The regulars know him, but no one talks to him.

He nods at the man behind the counter, scans his tag, and goes straight to the back where the weight benches are.

Hoodie on. Fitted cap low. AirPods in.

The playlist starts: Musiq Soulchild, Jill Scott, OutKast, Kendrick Lamar, Clipse.

His rhythm is precise—pull, exhale, control, reset.

When the weight strains his shoulders, his breath doesn’t break.

He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t flex for anyone. Just keeps pushing, veins rising in his arms, sweat beading along his hairline.

There’s power in repetition. Power in silence.

The music fades into his pulse.

Every rep is an act of prayer.

Every breath, an exorcism.

The Return

By 7:05, the fog’s burned off the yard.

He strips in the bathroom—drops the hoodie, the joggers, the compression tee. His reflection waits in the mirror: six feet of muscle, broad shoulders, dark skin slick with sweat.

His tattoos are barely visible in the dim light.

The thin black circuit design on his left bicep glints faintly, the scorpion behind his ear hidden under the fade. He traces none of them. He knows what they mean.

Cold water hits his skin like a blade.

He doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head back, lets the chill cut through the heat.

Steam rises, curling against the slate tiles.

He scrubs his beard with slow precision. Oils his skin after. The scent of oud wood and smoke clings to him —masculine, rich, unmistakable.

By 7:30, he’s dressed: black joggers, gray thermal, silver chain with the onyx charm. His watch. His rings.

He reads while he eats. Always reads.

A Baldwin paperback cracked open on the counter. Notes in the margins. Pen between his fingers.

His breakfast is clean—oats, fruit, protein, coffee refill.

The house hums around him.

It’s a rhythm now—the quiet before the day starts to test him.

He checks his phone finally.

One encrypted alert from the office.

Three client messages.

And a bookmark he doesn’t touch yet—the one leading back to her.

He’ll get there.

After he’s earned it.

After the work is done.

Discipline first. Desire later.

That’s what he tells himself.

Even when both start to feel like the same thing.

The Charger eases onto the street like it belongs there —windows tinted black, the engine tuned low. It’s not the loudest thing on the block. Just the one that gets remembered.

Smoke doesn’t speed. He doesn’t weave. He glides.

Through West End. Past the muraled walls and stoops with plastic chairs and ashtrays full of rainwater. Down boulevards lined with tired convenience stores and corner churches, liquor stores with iron gates, and streets named after saints and presidents.

He sees everything.

But nothing sees him.

The Barbershop Above the City

He parks in East Point.

Not on the main strip—never too close. Three blocks down from a quiet corner where nobody minds their business, but everybody knows not to speak it.

The barbershop looks like any other from the outside— sun-faded posters of old-school fades, grillz, and celebrity cuts taped crooked in the window. Inside, it hums: clippers buzzing, chairs spinning, old heads debating boxing and politics over the whine of a portable fan.

But Smoke doesn’t sit in a chair.

He nods once to the man behind the register—heavyset, beard dyed red, eyes sharp—and slips through the side door, up the narrow staircase past chipped paint and burnt incense.

Upstairs, the air changes.

The music cuts out.

The walls are thicker.

Here, above the noise, there’s a hallway of private rooms—rooms that “rent by the hour” to men who need silence, not a shave.

Room 3 is his.

Unmarked. Unnamed. Just a matte black door with a brass number and a biometric lock. Inside:

A desk. Heavy, unadorned, built low.

Two chairs—one for him, one never used.

A wall safe behind an ink-black painting.

Locked drawers full of backup drives, burner phones, old IDs, USB tools, and gloves.

He doesn’t stay long.

Checks the feed. Encrypts a message. Scrolls through accounts under names that aren’t his. Then he’s gone.

He never stays longer than 12 minutes.

Discipline. Always.

Errands in the City’s Blind Spots

Gas station off Cleveland Ave.

He doesn’t fill up. Just tops off. Always enough to leave. Never enough to stay.

He watches the parking lot reflections in the glass.

Laundromat off Pryor Street.

He drops a sealed envelope inside a half-broken dryer.

A kid with no socks will come pick it up in two hours. The washer next to it is rigged with a second envelope. The cycle always spins clean.

Restaurant stop—Slim & Husky’s

He don’t eat inside. Never does. Orders light: lemon pepper flatbread, side of greens, a cold Jamaican ginger.

Tips big. Says nothing. Makes the cashier blush anyway.

His eyes? Always scanning. Not twitchy. Just trained.

Mirrors. Shadows. Cars parked too long in one spot.

People underestimate how much you can learn from the shape of a man’s shoulders as he walks away.

Or a woman’s eyes when she’s trying not to look.

The Stakeout Begins (But No One Knows Yet)

He parks two blocks down from a daycare in South Fulton.

Windows cracked.

Phone dark.

Seat leaned just enough.

He’s not hunting.

Not yet.

Just watching.

Just making sure.

He doesn’t know her name yet.

But he knows the car.

The walk.

The worn tires and the cracked taillight.

The time she always runs late—6:12 PM.

Sometimes her son’s got a little plastic bag of goldfish. Sometimes a blue hoodie, slipping off one shoulder. Sometimes a light green baby backpack on her arm like she forgot she’s too tired to carry anything else.

He watches her from behind glass.

Not with hunger.

With claim.

Something about her moved inside him when he first found her on that screen. But this? This is real.

This is what her face looks like when she ain’t selling softness.

When she’s just trying to make it to the next moment without unraveling.

And that…that’s what unraveled him.

He doesn’t follow her home.

Not the first time.

He watches her pull off.

Waits ten minutes.

Then leaves.

The rhythm is set.

Routine.

Observation.

Obsession.

But on paper? It’s just another errand run.

Another quiet day.

Another man nobody sees until it’s far too late.

Night folds itself over the trees that ring Smoke’s house until even the air goes black.

Back At His Den

Inside the office the only light comes from four curved monitors and one candle that burns low, its smoke curling against the wall like slow breath. The room is sealed tight: curtains drawn, vents hushed, the hum of his machines filling the quiet.

He sits back in his chair, silver rings clicking once against the armrest. The glow from the main screen turns his skin the color of midnight chrome. His eyes—flat, patient, too dark to read—catch the reflection of movement on the screen.

Account active: camera0ff.

No messages. No emojis. No noise.

He never types a word. He never needs to.

Her stream opens in silence first: pixels sharpening, color blooming from gray into warmth. She’s there in the little rectangle—LaceyBlaze69—framed by soft amber light. The background shifts each night: sometimes lavender, sometimes gold. Tonight it’s dim rose, the color of dusk held too long.

She isn’t talking yet. Just setting up. Adjusting a candle on her desk, the flicker catching the side of her cheek. Her hair’s pulled up loosely, a few curls sliding down near her ear. She looks tired—but the kind of tired that reads real. That’s what keeps him here. The authenticity of exhaustion. The quiet before she becomes whoever they think she is.

Her shirt is off‑shoulder, gray cotton. Not a costume tonight. Casual. Intimate. Smoke notes that instantly; she dresses down when rent’s close. Her eyes dart to the corner of the chat—she’s watching the tip count climb. Her smile flickers and fades.

He leans closer. The cursor of light travels across his cheekbone. Every motion on her side registers as a shift in his own breathing.

She’s talking now, low and husky, greeting the chat. Names flood the sidebar—handles he’s catalogued in his head like case files. He recognizes most of them. He’s seen the rhythms of their tipping, their favorite phrases, the way their hunger leaks through keystrokes.

He watches her eyes skim the usernames. Watches her lips part when she spots camera0ff.

That’s the moment the first tip lands.

Five thousand tokens.

No message.

Just the sound effect—a tiny chime that breaks the hush.

She exhales. Softly. Her fingers pause on the keyboard.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

The light of her screen glazes his face, every micro‑expression tightening then relaxing. He knows this room too well—the way the shadows bunch behind her curtain, the cheap tripod reflection in her mirror, the small plant that’s starting to brown in the corner. Details most viewers skip past. He collects them all, arranging her life in the dark like a puzzle he’s almost solved.

Another tip. Smaller this time. Then stillness.

He waits. She shifts. Laughs lightly at something someone else wrote, the sound traveling through his speakers and into the soft air around him.

Smoke’s hand hovers near the mouse but never clicks. The muscles in his jaw jump once, then settle. He’s studying, not participating. Every gesture, every glance, filed away.

She leans forward to adjust her camera; for a heartbeat the lens fills with her eyes—brown, bright, unguarded.

It hits him like a slow‑building ache, right under the ribs.

That’s the part that gets him. Not the performance. The in‑between.

He sits there long after she signs off, the screen gone dark except for his reflection staring back.

In that reflection, his expression doesn’t change, but his pulse does. A quiet metronome against the silence.

He kills the light. The monitors fade to black.

The house holds its breath with him.

He doesn’t know it yet, but this—this watching, this quiet cataloging of her world—has already rewritten his own.

Smoke doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

Still sitting in his chair like he’s mid-breath and hasn’t decided whether to finish it.

That’s the thing about obsession.

It doesn’t roar at first.

It creeps.

Soft as a sigh.

Outside, the trees rustle in their hush. Inside, his office feels colder with the light gone, like the candle knows she left the room. The flame gutters, long and thin.

He pushes back slowly, the leather chair groaning beneath him. One long breath slides out of his nose, and he reaches for the candle. Snuffs it with a whisper of two fingers. Smoke curls in the air, gray on gray.

Only then does he rise.

Bare feet on hardwood. Heavy steps. Still shirtless, still in his slacks, the silver chain around his neck catching moonlight from the slivered gap in the curtain.

He moves quiet. Like he’s done this before. Because he has.

Down the hall, past the second bedroom nobody sleeps in, past the mirror he doesn’t look into right now, into the kitchen. He doesn’t turn the light on.

Just opens the fridge by muscle memory and pulls out the tall bottle of water. Drinks half of it without stopping. The cold hits his chest like something holy. A distraction. A reset.

But it doesn’t work.

Not tonight.

Because tonight, she looked straight into the camera—just once—and it felt like she knew. Like she knew who she was talking to, even if she didn’t understand how she knew it. And that look? It branded itself behind his eyes.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out a blunt. Lights it at the stovetop flame. Leans against the counter, back tense, shoulder muscles flexing beneath his skin. Smoke curls out his mouth slow. Slower than usual. He doesn’t pace. He never paces. He just stands still and thinks—but that’s the problem now.

He’s thinking too much.

Her real name still presses under his tongue like a secret he hasn’t earned.

But he knows it.

He knows now.

And that changes everything.

He flicks ash into the sink. Stares at nothing. Imagines the soft pink light behind her in that room, the way she leaned into the lens. The tiredness in her eyes beneath the showgirl smile.

It wasn’t a performance tonight. Not really.

It was a woman trying to hold it together.

And something about that—about her—cut him somewhere old.

Back in his bedroom, the bed’s still unmade from the night before. He never makes it. He just lays down like a man laying down with a full mind.

He leaves the blunt in a tray on the nightstand, still burning.

On the dresser across from the bed, one of his monitors is still on sleep mode. The faint outline of the streaming site’s logo floats across it. He watches it drift. Watches it vanish and return again.

He’s not tired. But his body lays still.

One arm across his chest. Fingers touching his chain.

She doesn’t know he’s here.

Not yet.

But Smoke knows himself.

And he knows that this—this quiet spiral, this tight ache in the gut, this unnameable possession curling under his ribs doesn’t go away.

Not until he gets closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Obsession don’t start big. It starts with a flicker. A voice. A laugh. A look too long.

Then it spreads.

She showed up on my screen one night, slow-rolling her hips to some trap soul beat I used to fuck to. The kind of girl with quiet fire behind the eyes. A mouth too smart. A body too soft. I told myself it was curiosity. Research.

Just a burner account. Just a scroll.

But that little red light hit the corner of the frame and I ain’t been the same since.

A man like him didn’t chase ghosts. But her? She’d crept into his bloodstream. Her voice. Her face. Her fucking mouth. That window flicker was all he needed. The cam show lights that blinked to life upstairs like a neon confession. He knew it then. She was real.

And if she was real, she had roots.

He wasn’t looking for a name. He was looking for the break. The tell. The weak stitch in the digital mask. Smoke pulled a still frame from the last stream. Paused her mid-turn. Her eyes were half-lidded, mouth parted, lit pink-blue from the LED glow of her setup. He ran a reverse image scan—not through commercial indexes, but through a bastardized cross-network search engine he’d written himself. Something between AI triangulation and metadata scraping. Slow. Dirty. Deep.

At first, nothing but a wall of dummies.

The usernames were throwaway. ‘LaceyBlaze69’ ran back to a fan site, but he knew that was dead-end skin bait. IPs pinged from proxies. Standard camgirl obfuscation. She was smart.

But not smarter than him.

He followed the soft trails: an old wishlist from 2021 under a defunct handle. A comment someone left under a tub oil listing— “you smell like melted sugar, Blaze.” That same username had retweeted a Reddit thread a year ago. “Blaze got that creamy real head energy. Y’all asleep.”

That username? Burned. Deleted. But it didn’t vanish from his logs. Smoke leaned in. The M. Brooks. He opened another pane. Scraped the backend of the wishlist history and peeled the address metadata that had once been linked. It was partial. A city, not a street. Atlanta.

He switched scripts.

Ran the burner ID through Venmo dumps, Cashapp transfers. Found a single connection. A name tied to a sister’s payment ID. Someone who used to tag “for diapers 🍼💙” in her notes. The baby’s name wasn’t listed.

But hers was. Malaya Nicole Brooks.

Smoke didn’t blink. Just inhaled once, deep through his nose, chest expanding slow as he sat back and let the name soak in.

Malaya. It sounded right.

He opened another pane and fed the name through a social archive. Pulled cached results. Image tags. Scraped anything not sealed behind a private wall.

There. Buried.

An old baby registry. Archived. Still cached.

Malaya Nicole Brooks. Age at the time: 24. Expected due date listed as January 5th. Registered in Atlanta. And below that, two saved items: a grey bassinet and a small wooden name puzzle. The kind you custom-order.

He copied the name. Dropped it into a final search. One last hit blinked into life. A private Instagram. No posts since last year. Profile picture barely visible through the blur. But when he clicked? There she was. No filters. No gloss. Just her and her boy. She was on a blanket, cheeks bare of makeup, curls pulled back, eyes squinting into the sunlight. That same mouth. That same skin. Her face leaned against her son’s, their noses touching like a secret between them.

Smoke sat still.

Every tendon in his jaw locked tight. His fingers hovered over the mouse but didn’t click. He didn’t need to see more. He saw enough. His chest rose once, sharp. Then the words left his mouth quiet, like a verdict…

“Got you now.”

Smoke didn’t save much—not in the way other men did. No messy folders labeled Favorites or SheBadAF, no collections of porn cluttering his hard drive. He didn’t hoard. He curated.

He archived.

In the deep, encrypted section of his personal server—beneath firewalls laced with custom scripts and backdoor diversions—sat a folder marked only by a black glyph: 𖤐. Hidden in plain sight. Inside, each file had no name. Only dates. Timestamps. Noted by show duration, lighting setup, outfit color.

He knew her schedule by now.

Mondays, she usually didn’t cam.

Tuesdays were slow—sometimes quiet shows with half her face in shadow.

Fridays, though? That’s when she danced. Put on lipstick. Wore silver hoops that glinted when she bounced.

He had ten clips from Fridays alone.

Smoke sat back in his office chair, barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips. One hand on the trackpad. The other resting between his thighs—not jerking off. Just there. Holding the ache.

He hit play.

There she was—centered in her frame, back arched, thighs slick with oil.

No face. No name.

But he knew her now. The way she twitched when she came. The slow drag of her middle finger. The hush in her voice when she whispered fuck like it meant something real.

He paused on a frame.

Zoomed in.

The blanket behind her was creased different that night. In the corner, just behind her shoulder, a sliver of shadow—the curve of a framed photo nearly cropped out. Blink and you’d miss it.

Smoke didn’t blink. He logged the image.

Tagged it: Possible family photo

Then closed the window, jaw tight. He wasn’t watching for porn anymore. He was watching her. And he was getting close. He wasn’t supposed to know her name. That was the rule. The unspoken barrier between watcher and watched. Keep it fantasy. Keep it clean. But Smoke never played by rules he didn’t write. The night he saw the daycare magnet on her fridge, cropped into the corner of a low-angle shot where she bent over too far—he screenshotted it. Enhanced. Zoomed. Ran a reverse image search on the phone number.

Found it.

A daycare center off Hollowell Parkway. Low-income zip code. Five-star reviews from desperate working moms who called the director Miss Tasha like she was the second coming. Two more clicks, a scraped parent roster uploaded to the county site, and he had it.

Brooks, Malaya N.

Emergency contact listed: Antwan Riggins.

Co-parent. Address listed in East Point. Smoke already had eyes on that house.

From there, the rest unraveled.

📌 Driver’s license (active, Georgia—updated with her current address six months ago; Smoke accessed it through a database sweep he’s not supposed to have)

📌 Hospital badge (Medical Assistant, outpatient clinic, midtown)

📌 County court record (small claims—back rent dispute, dropped due to non-payment)

📌 Instagram (private)

📌 Facebook (ghosted, but not deleted)

📌 Venmo history (a tip-off—emoji trails that matched her cam patterns)

📌 Amazon wishlist (cross-referenced—same lip gloss, same LED light strips she used one Thursday)

Her name tasted real in his mouth now.

Malaya.

He closed his laptop. Sat in the dark. Let the name settle on his chest like heat. And once he said it out loud in the quiet of his office—just once—there was no going back. He closed his laptop. Sat in the dark. Let the name settle on his chest like heat.

This wasn’t just curiosity. This was hunger.

The pink light came on at 10:27.

And Smoke stopped breathing.

The Charger sat tucked beneath a dying streetlamp on the far side of the alley. Engine off. Lights off. Tinted windows holding the dark in place. From this angle, he could see the second floor of the duplex across the street. Just enough of it to count. She lived on the left unit, mirror of the one beside it. Second floor. Front window. Curtains drawn just loose enough to leak color when the ring light flicked on. He knew the schedule by now. Not just her cam shows. Her life.

6:45 AM—blinds crack open. She’s up. Messiah’s cereal bowl hits the counter by 7.

8:12 AM—she locks the door behind her, diaper bag and small hand in tow.

5:37 PM—they’re back. Groceries or nothing at all.

10:27 PM—the show begins.

Tonight? He was already there. Smoke didn’t light a blunt. Didn’t lean back. Didn’t blink much. He just sat. Elbows on thighs. Hands folded. Eyes fixed. The porch light on her side of the duplex was dead. No motion light in the shared yard. The grass between units hadn’t been cut in weeks. Weeds curled around the bottom step like they were listening too. That second-floor window? A soft flicker. Then a burst of blush pink.

The string lights.

Same ones he’d seen reflecting off her skin when she played shy for the camera.

She was up there.

Live.

Not just a username now. Not a tab on his browser. Not a fantasy spread across pixels and playback. A woman in a duplex. A mother. A body he could almost smell.

Smoke’s jaw flexed.

He clocked the shadow of her shape pass behind the curtain. A curved silhouette. Heavy up top, thick at the thighs. Moving like she was multitasking, setting things down, pulling something from a tote, checking the baby monitor.

The light shifted again.

She’d turned the harsh overhead off. Just the ring light and the string lights now. She was on. And so was he. But not in the way she thought. He didn’t watch her show from the car. Didn’t need to. Already had Camera0ff queued up on his phone, notifications silenced, screen dimmed. Just in case. But this? This was different. This wasn’t about jerking off or tipping under burners.

This was…territorial.

That was his girl.

She just didn’t know it yet. The curtain fluttered once. Just a corner, like maybe it caught a breeze. But there was no wind. Smoke’s stomach tightened. He sat still. Stone-still. And then, a shape moved behind the thin fabric again. She was adjusting the ring light. Bending over slightly. His mouth went dry. Not with lust. With need. Real, physical need. The kind of need that doesn’t live in your dick. The kind that lives in your blood.

This is where it changes, he thought, This is the threshold.

She’s no longer just something he watches. She’s someone he knows. Someone he plans for. Someone he’s willing to protect. Even if that protection looks a lot like possession.

The elevator doors slid open with a low chime, spilling a wash of amber light over Smoke’s boots as he stepped out onto the rooftop.

Midnight had draped itself like velvet across the Atlanta skyline—sharp angles of steel and glass glittering under the watch of a low-hanging moon. The rooftop was lit in layers: bronze up-lighting against obsidian stone planters, strings of warm Edison bulbs crisscrossing overhead, and hidden spotlights that threw low shadows across honey-toned wooden decking.

Clusters of high-top tables and plush black lounges carved the space into intimate pockets—one corner edged with tall palms in matte black pots, another with a fire pit surrounded by curved seating upholstered in wine-colored velvet. A crystal hookah sat on the ledge, glowing blue.

The scent of sweet tobacco, expensive perfume, and something floral—jasmine, maybe—drifted through the air, thickened by laughter and bass. A DJ spun something deep and sultry—Kaytranada on the turntable, rolling waves of rhythm that made the ice in whiskey glasses clink in time.

Women in floor-length silk and glittering mesh slinked through the crowd. Legs and lace. Red lips and diamond necklaces. The Black elite in their prime—rappers-turned-investors, sons of Southern oil magnates, HBCU legacy kids dipped in quiet generational wealth. Escorts too, most likely. Models, no doubt. No one here wore anything by accident.

Smoke moved through it like shadow—combat boots silent on the wood, black pants molded to powerful legs, the charcoal grey waffle-knit Henley hugging his frame like a second skin. His sleeves were pushed to his forearms, showing ink and muscle. Silver rings gleamed on his fingers—some engraved with runes, one wide and flat with a wolf etched across the band. A thick silver chain sat against his collarbone, catching the lowlight, and a single hoop hugged his left ear. Still. Calm. The kind of man that didn’t need to speak to be noticed.

He didn’t belong in this world of curated extravagance. But his brother did.

And sure enough, Stack stood across the rooftop like a man born into royalty.

Elias “Stack” Moore wore a double-breasted suit the color of night wine—dark maroon, rich as velvet, tailored like sin. No tie. Collar unbuttoned low enough to show his smooth chest and the tip of a tattoo peeking out. His loafers were black crocodile. He wore a single ruby pinky ring, a watch that cost more than rent in Buckhead, and a gold canines that flashed when he smiled.

Stack wasn’t just holding court—he was the court. People leaned in when he talked. Laughed when he laughed. Two women had already touched his chest just since Smoke had stepped in. A server handed him a glass of something top shelf, and Stack raised it without breaking eye contact from across the space.

Smoke gave him a slight nod.

[COMM EARPIECE ACTIVE]

STACK: “’Bout damn time. You blendin’ in with the furniture in that greyscale, bruh.

SMOKE: “Somebody’s gotta make sure your ass don’t get shot.”

Stack chuckled softly through the comm. He was already walking. Smooth, unhurried, weaving through the crowd with predator ease. When he reached his brother, they dapped up—tight, brief, real.

STACK: “You see that lens in the palm frond planter behind the DJ booth?”

SMOKE: (gruff) “I installed it.”

STACK: “I know. Wanted to make sure you remembered this my party.”

Smoke gave a slow, amused shake of his head.

A woman passed by wearing nothing but silver chains and a sheer catsuit. Stack didn’t even look. Not because he wasn’t tempted—he was just looking at someone else.

Over by the bar.

A woman in a deep red dress.

Backless. Low neckline. Diamond body chain glittering between the slope of her breasts. French roll tight and elegant, but a few free strands framed her sharp, hypnotic face.

Fine.

And she was sipping her drink slow. Watching him.

Stack didn’t smile. Just lifted his glass. Their eyes met.

Held.

She blinked slow. Didn’t look away.

SMOKE: “You know her?”

STACK: “Not yet.”

The DJ switched up the track—slid into a flipped mix of Sade and Larry June, and the crowd swayed deeper into the beat. Stack leaned in, adjusting Smoke’s collar like he was the older twin by seconds.

STACK: “I got a meet in ten. Someone dirty wants something rare. I want you on that feed, just in case.”

SMOKE: “They comin’ armed?”

STACK: “Ain’t they always?”

Stack stepped back and smoothed the front of his jacket, eyes flickering back to red dress as she turned on her heel, slow like a cat, and disappeared behind the velvet curtain leading to the private section.

Stack’s grin was lazy. Dangerous.

STACK: “She movin’ like she trouble.”

SMOKE: “So’s this party.”

STACK: “Ain’t that why we throw it?”

Smoke just exhaled once through his nose and walked toward the far end of the rooftop—where his portable console sat, disguised as a small humidor case in a corner near the server station. He pulled a cord from his back pocket and jacked in, eyes flicking across the infrared feed—heat signatures, security patches, wireless grid clean.

No signs of tampering.

Not yet.

And somewhere behind velvet and shadows, Stack was walking into the kind of deal that got men rich. Or killed.

But that’s why he had a brother in the dark.

The velvet curtain swayed gently as Stack stepped through, leaving the beat of the rooftop party behind like a memory.

Inside, the room was cooler—lit by flickering wall sconces and a low, amber chandelier shaped like a blown-glass bloom. The walls were matte black, hung with gold-framed photos of Atlanta landmarks twisted into surreal art. A cigar case rested on a mirrored bar cart, untouched. A single white orchid bloomed in a jet-black vase on a glass table. Every detail had been Stack-approved.

Three men sat waiting.

They weren’t from here.

No silk, no ease. Cheap suits trying to look expensive. Diamond earrings that screamed insecurity. Two of them were broad-shouldered and stiff, barely speaking. The third—thinner, meaner, older—sat in the center, legs crossed, fingers adorned with rings that didn’t match. His eyes tracked Stack like a hunting dog.

Stack adjusted his cufflinks and smiled just enough to disarm.

“Apologies. Good taste takes time.”

He strolled to the table like he owned it and poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter—Louis XIII, of course. He didn’t offer them any.

“So.” He sipped, slow, “You boys come all this way for what, exactly?”

The thin one leaned forward, voice low and cracked.

“We’re lookin’ for a piece. Old. Rare. From the Cairo haul.”

Stack didn’t flinch, but he clocked it.

Stolen antiquities.

Messy.

“That’s specific. Most folks just want crypto art, or a Picasso from somebody’s dead mistress.”

“We’re not most folks.”

“Clearly.”

He leaned back in his chair, legs wide, one arm draped over the back. Slow blink. Calm breath.

“And you think I have what you’re looking for?”

“No.” The man smirked, “We think your ghost brother does.”

Stack’s jaw ticked, barely.

He tilted his head.

“That supposed to be funny?”

The man smiled wider.

“The Moore Twins. Everyone’s heard of you. One walks into the fire. The other rewires the building while it burns.”

Behind the scenes, Smoke’s voice crackled in Stack’s earpiece.

SMOKE: “He’s carrying. Right hip. Glock. The one on the left’s got a knife in his boot. Front guy’s pacemaker is wireless—could kill him in ten seconds.”

STACK: “Not yet.”

SMOKE: “Say the word.”

STACK: “We good.”

Stack tapped a silver ring against his glass, slow.

“Let’s skip the poetry. What do you want?”

“We want access. To your broker. The one who makes files disappear. The one who scrubs names, rewrites surveillance, fakes biometrics. The Ghost.”

“You want my brother.”

“We want to pay him. Handsomely.”

Stack smiled. This time, it touched his eyes.

“That’s the problem. You think my brother need money.” He stood, “This meeting’s over.”

One of the bodyguards twitched. A half-step forward. Stack didn’t move—he just stared. And smiled slower.

“Do that again, and I’ll send your heart home in a champagne flute.”

The room went quiet.

Thick with tension.

Stack turned his back on them—casually. Poured another drink. His voice was calm, but cold.

“You brought Cairo business to my city without clearance. You insulted my blood. And you walked into my party with bad breath and cheap linen.” He swirled the drink, “Go home.”

The thin man stood, slow. Jaw tight.

“This isn’t over.”

Stack finally looked back. Eyes hard now. Smile gone.

“You right.”

Behind the mirrored bar cart, the hidden lens above the orchid blinked red once.

Transmission logged. Faces captured.

Grid reset.

SMOKE (through comm): “Feed’s scrubbed. You clean.”

Stack adjusted his jacket, smoothed his hand down the lapel.

“Tell your boss: next time he wants the ghost, he better pray the ghost don’t want him.”

The men left without a word.

Stack finished his drink.

Behind him, the orchid kept blooming.

Untouched.

But not unnoticed.

The night had stretched deeper since the meet—wind curling low around the rooftop like it was listening. The DJ was still spinning, but the tempo had slowed, dripping into a syrupy blend of old Southern soul and modern trap drums. Most of the crowd had migrated toward the fire pit, glowing orange and gold against the silhouette of swaying palms.

Smoke stood at the edge of it all.

One hand wrapped around a lowball glass he hadn’t sipped.

The other tucked in his pocket, thumb grazing the lining like a silent metronome.

He was watching Stack move through the afterglow of the party like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just threatened to send someone’s heart back in crystal. Laughing low with a woman in black feathers. Nodding at some young investment bro who clearly wanted to be him. Still looking like the most dangerous man in a room full of rich ones.

But Smoke had seen the shift. The twitch. The jaw tick.

And he didn’t like what he saw.

“Yo.”

Stack turned mid-pour, one brow arched, bottle of cognac suspended mid-air.

“That your version of ‘hello’ now?”

“Why’d you let ‘em walk?”

The bottle clinked softly as Stack set it down.

“Straight to business, huh?”

Smoke didn’t smile. He stepped in closer, boots heavy on the deck. The shadows curved around him. Even with the noise of the party behind them, this space between the brothers felt…still.

“I had eyes. Ears. One word from you and I could’ve dropped two of ‘em where they sat. The third wouldn’t’ve made it to the stairs.”

“I know.”

“So again—why’d you let them walk?”

Stack leaned against the bar, one hand on the counter, the other casually adjusting the cuffs of his wine-colored suit. Still calm. Still cool. But his gaze flickered sharp for a moment.

“Because they weren’t here for blood, Smoke. They were here for access. They’re desperate, not dangerous.”

“Desperate gets people killed.”

“So does ego.”

Smoke exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight.

“You can’t keep assuming your name’s enough to stop a bullet.”

Stack’s eyes softened. Just a little.

“And you can’t keep tryna solve every problem with kill-switches and code.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

The silence between them always held weight—history, war, blood, loyalty. A language no one else understood.

“They knew who you were,” Smoke muttered, “Said your name. Knew mine.”

“Everybody’s watching something.”

“Yeah. But not everybody lives to watch twice.”

That earned the ghost of a smile from Stack.

“Damn, you sound just like Mama.”

Smoke finally took a sip. The liquor hit like truth. He stayed silent. Stack pushed off the bar and stepped in close, lowering his voice.

“Look—I knew what they wanted. I let ‘em talk. Let ‘em sweat. Let ‘em walk out thinkin’ they might have a shot, because people like that? They move loud when they think they’ve won. That’s when they make mistakes. That’s when you catch ‘em.”

“You baitin’ ‘em.”

“I’m always baitin’ ‘em.”

Smoke stared at him hard, then finally nodded once.

“Next time, tell me the play before you toss the line.”

“Next time, bring better whiskey.”

They shared the briefest smile—tight and tired, but real. A bond forged in twin fire, tempered by shadow. And just as they turned to part, Stack’s eyes drifted sideways—back to the bar, where the woman in the red dress was laughing with someone, a slow swirl of her drink catching the chandelier light.

Smoke clocked the glance.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

“You already marked her?” Stack asked, half teasing.

Smoke didn’t answer. Just tapped the side of his glass once and disappeared back into the darker edges of the party.

Smoke stood off to the side of the rooftop, away from the crowd, the glow from his smartwatch throwing ghost-light across his skin. He checked it again. Then again.

01:42 AM.

No alerts.

No pings.

Still, his jaw was tight—muscle ticking near his temple. Something in him was humming too loud to ignore. He brought his fingers to the small device clipped discreetly to the inside of his belt—looked like a fashion detail, but when tapped twice, it activated the portable sweep.

A quiet pulse rippled across the rooftop space.

No wireless interruptions.

No new heat signatures.

No anomalies in signal drop.

Stack was still safe.

Smoke exhaled, but it wasn’t relief. It was protocol.

His eyes flicked back toward his brother, who now leaned solo against the bar, swirling dark liquor in a crystal glass. Laughter floated from the fire pit behind them. The DJ had shifted into something darker—Brent Faiyaz on a slowed reverb, dragging smoke and sin through every beat.

Stack was calm. Too calm.

Smoke started walking over, but Stack turned his head first—felt him coming. He always did.

“You bouncin’?” Stack asked, voice smooth, almost lazy.

“You good?”

“I’m always good.”

“You sure?”

Stack tapped a knuckle against his glass.

“You swept?”

“Just did.”

“Then I’m good.”

Smoke nodded once. But his eyes kept moving—just for a second—searching corners, exits, rooftops across the skyline. Not paranoid. Just trained.

That’s when Stack frowned, glancing toward the bar again.

“She gone.”

Smoke paused mid-step, “Who?”

“Red Dress. The one with the eyes and the attitude. Backless. Slick. Mysterious. She was watchin’ me all night. Then poof.”

Smoke looked toward the bar. Empty glass, lipstick mark. No trace. She was gone.

“You talk to her?”

Stack shook his head, more amused than disappointed, “Nah. Just watched her watch me. Thought she’d circle back.”

Smoke’s gaze narrowed just slightly.

“Maybe she will.”

Stack didn’t answer, just gave a low whistle under his breath and glanced down at the empty spot one last time.

“Guess the ghost gets ghosts now.”

Smoke turned, eyes still sweeping.

“Keep your eyes open.”

“I always do.”

They clasped hands—tight, no words—and Smoke leaned in close, voice low, just for Stack.

“If anything feels off, don’t wait. Text the string.”

“I got it.”

“You better.”

Stack grinned.

“Damn, you leavin’ like I’m goin’ to war.”

Smoke’s eyes stayed locked a moment longer before he finally turned, boots heavy on the deck as he walked toward the elevator.

The city swallowed him up as the doors closed.

And Stack stayed where he was, still holding that half-empty glass, still staring at the ghost of a woman who moved like she’d been born in mist.

The gate whispered open to the gravel of Smoke’s long driveway, then shut with a mechanical click that echoed down the trees like a secret.

Whisper—the black pitbull—lifted her head from the porch but didn’t move. She knew the rhythm of his truck. The way the engine growled then fell silent.

Smoke stepped out into the still night.

The weight of the party rolled off his shoulders with each step up the porch. Boots heavy. Posture tighter than usual.

He keyed in the code.

The house welcomed him with silence.

Inside, the cool air met his skin. The scent of cedarwood, clove, and cigar memory wrapped around him like ritual. Everything in place. Floors clean. Music low—an instrumental loop of D’Angelo’s “Send It On” weaving through the walls like smoke trails.

But he didn’t take off his boots.

Didn’t drop his keys.

Didn’t even pass through the kitchen.

He needed to see her.

Straight to the office—his war room.

Where obsession lived.

The blackout curtains stayed drawn.

Four curved monitors. All sleeping.

A single candle flickered on the glass desk—cedar & oud —burning low.

He sat in the matte black chair and tapped the command key. He enters a long password, masked in dots. Camera0ff. His private handle. The one that never speaks, never tips on-screen. Just watches.

Smoke stares.

Hard.

The room lit up.

Not white, not blue. Red.

Her stream was already live.

LACEYBLAZE69 —FRIDAY NIGHT: POV + REQUESTS

And there she was.

Malaya.

Oiled. Naked. Red light bleeding across her deep, skin the shade of deep-warmed mahogany. Long rope twist braids falling to her thick ass, swaying with every curve of her body.

Heels still on. Legs spread, slowly twisting at the waist.

Biting her bottom lip.

Licking it.

Giggling—soft. Feminine. Tipsy. There was no baby monitor in the background tonight. No sippy cup tucked behind a ring light. Just her. Uncaged.

She was dancing slow to DVSN. “Too Deep” was playing low. Almost muffled.

One hand cupped a breast, thumb brushing a slick nipple. The other hand dragged oil across her belly. She turned her back to the camera, rolled her hips in a figure-eight. Ass shaking soft. Teasing. Deliberate.

Only half her face was in frame.

Eyes low.

Mouth parted.

Never blinking.

And Smoke…

He sat back slowly, legs spreading wider.

Combat boots still on the floor.

One hand gripped the leather armrest.

The other drifted to his crotch—not touching, just resting. Fingers curled. Twitching.

His dick was already thickening, swelling slow behind the fabric of his pants.

He didn’t breathe right.

Shallow.

Unsteady.

The screen reflected red across his face, cutting a clean line over his sharp jaw and under his cheekbones like war paint.

His thumb grazed his bottom lip.

Then he dragged it across the stubble of his jaw. Slow. Like he was feeling something warm rise up from beneath the surface.

She laughed again. High, soft. Whispering something to no one in particular, “I’m feelin’ good tonight…might let y’all watch me touch it. Y’all want that?”

She leaned in, pushed her breasts together, licked a line between them, tongue slow like syrup.

He caught the glint of a stretch mark there. Gold and delicate, like lightning trapped beneath her skin.

Another curved under her hip.

The soft ripple at her belly when she arched.

Smoke watched it all.

Watched her body with the kind of worship reserved for sacred things.

Every flaw? Mark of survival.

Every curve? A place to hold her down.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t touch himself.

Not yet.

But his eyes tracked her like a sniper.

From the curl of her toes to the shine on her lips to the subtle shift in her breath when her fingers danced lower.

And then…he opened a second screen.

The one synced to a different identity.

🕶️ YungCipher has entered the room.

As Camera0ff, He didn’t chat. Didn’t speak.

But the moment her hand brushed her inner thigh, a tip appeared.

Malaya didn’t react at first.

But Smoke knew she felt it.

She always did.

She was still dancing—oiled, glowing, red-lit and loose—but the second her hand brushed the inner curve of her thigh, her eyes fluttered like something passed over her skin.

A pause.

Just one beat.

Then—

+1,111 tokens — from YungCipher

The tip landed like a hand on her thigh.

She gasped—small, involuntary.

Not for show.

“Mmm…there you go…”

Her voice was soft, wine-sweet.

“Thank you…”

She shifted back on her knees, spreading wider.

Heels dragging slow on the floor beneath her.

The camera caught everything.

Her lips parted.

The gleam on her chest.

That subtle dip in her lower belly where a baby once lived.

Her breasts full, mouth wet, thighs trembling now.

She reached for herself—delicate at first—fingers grazing over her mound. She dipped between, pulled back slick.

Smoke watched it all, unmoving.

One elbow on his thigh.

The other hand still resting on his dick—hard now, heavy behind the fabric of his pants.

Not stroking.

Just…present.

His thumb grazed his bottom lip.

Eyes half-lidded.

Tracking her with surgical hunger.

“It’s like you feel me…like you inside my head…”

She whispered it soft—like a spell.

Not to anyone specific.

But Smoke felt it land.

Direct. Possessive. Personal.

She moaned again, slipping two fingers down and in, arching back—

+6,969 tokens —from YungCipher

The sound she made wasn’t pretty.

It was real.

Raw.

“Ah—f-fuck…”

Her hand stuttered.

Eyes fluttered closed—

Then opened again, slower this time.

She locked on the lens like it was someone’s eyes.

Like his.

“YungCipher…you’re nasty. And I like that.”

Smoke’s chest rose—finally.

A slow inhale.

A low, controlled exhale through his nostrils.

She wasn’t even faking anymore.

She was talking to him.

And he hadn’t said a single word.

Still, she moved for him now—legs wide, hand coated, lips parted.

Not putting on a show.

Offering herself.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

Just watched the arch of her foot.

The twitch of her jaw.

The way her body carried the truth of motherhood—softened in some places, scarred in others. And still? The sexiest thing he’d ever fucking seen.

He opened his wallet.

Selected the pattern.

Waited for the moment when her breath caught—

+1,111 tokens

(half-second delay)

+1,111 tokens

(another beat)

+1,111 tokens

Her eyes fluttered shut again.

Her legs jerked wider.

Her other hand gripped the sheets out of frame.

“Mmm…this one’s for you, baby…”

Smoke leaned back then.

Finally.

Still not touching.

Still holding himself like a promise.

And on screen, she began to unravel.

All for him.

The red light spilled across his face like blood on silk.

And for the first time all night…he exhaled.

He wasn’t supposed to do this.

Not yet.

Not like this.

But something about tonight…something about the way she was laid out for them—for him—just knocked the air from his lungs and left him burning.

Her name lit the screen in neon pink: LaceyBlaze69 is Live.

Her camera opened with that slow, sultry rhythm she always used. Red light. Low angle. Sultry music spilling from the laptop speaker, soft and slow like. Her thighs were already parted when she leaned back, fingers slipping lower, glistening from the very first touch.

And Smoke didn’t even mean to at first.

Just let his palm rest heavy over the thick length rising against his pants, fingertips grazing the outline, then curling slightly. Gripping. Flexing.

His breathing had already changed. Shallow. Slow.

He hadn’t even touched skin yet and still he felt close to crumbling.

She was the reason.

His reason.

Because that pussy?

That pussy was insane.

She had a fat pussy—fat in the way it sat like a pillow between her thighs, even when closed. Thick, plush outer lips you could see from across the room. Soft-looking. Parted just enough that her inner lips peeked through—slick, shiny, a deep flushed brown that darkened the wetter she got. Her clit was swollen, plump and twitching just beneath her middle finger. And the way she played with herself? Slow at first—petting her folds like she was shy about it, even after all this time. Then deeper. Wetter. Cream pooling when she spread herself wide with two fingers and circled lazy over the top.

Smoke’s grip tightened.

Still over his pants.

Still fighting it.

🕶️ YungCipher: “Tilt the cam. Let daddy see how creamy it is.”

She read it. Paused.

Bit her bottom lip, then dragged the camera closer—slow, knowing. The frame shifted, tightening like a close-up on a dream. Now her pussy filled the screen. Every glistening inch.

🕶️ YungCipher: “That’s it. Show me that fuckin mess.”

She obeyed. She always did.

Fingers spreading those thick lips wide till her inner folds were dripping. Creamy and fluttering like she needed to be touched—really touched. She rubbed slow and shallow, then dipped deep—two fingers curling in and pulling out glistening white, strings of it clinging between her knuckles.

Smoke groaned.

Finally gave in.

He shoved his pants down, no ceremony.

Briefs too. Everything in one motion.

And that dick?

It came out vicious.

Big. Heavy. Slapping against his thigh with a weight that made him hiss. Girthy, dark brown shaft with thick veins that throbbed up the side, his skin flushed with heat and tension. The tip was fat, flushed deep plum with a slit that glistened, wet with pre-cum. His balls hung low, heavy, drawn tight and aching. No trimming—he’d let the hair grow back, thick and coarse above the base like he liked it, like he knew she’d like it when she finally got a taste of it.

He wrapped his hand around the base and held.

Didn’t stroke yet.

Just gripped.

🕶️ YungCipher: “You got me grippin my shit, mama. You proud of that?”

She moaned aloud. Just from the text.

Her breath hitched.

She circled her clit faster.

🕶️ YungCipher: “Tell me what that pussy smell like. Bet it’s sweet. Bet it taste like peaches and cream.”

She gasped, her hips rocking up toward the camera.

“YungCipher, I—fuck—” she breathed, “It’s drippin. My pussy’s fuckin drippin. It’s sticky, I can feel it on my thighs…”

Smoke spat heavy in his palm.

Rubbed the head.

Shivered.

His stroking had a rhythm. Always did.

Long, firm drags from base to tip.

Then a twist. A squeeze.

Thumb rolling over the head.

And when the pre-cum leaked thick and warm, he moaned low, eyes locked on her creamy folds twitching around her fingers.

🕶️ YungCipher: “I’d eat that pussy till you cried. And then keep eatin. Wouldn’t stop. Not till you begged. Not till you came on my fuckin face.”

She whimpered.

Her other hand slipped beneath her, rubbing just beneath the lips—lower, slower—then back up to her clit.

Her fingers glistened. Her thighs trembled.

Smoke’s eyes darkened.

His chest rose.

Fist pumping now, slow and filthy, dragging that fat dick up and down while his balls bounced lightly beneath, wet with sweat and lust. He reached for a bottle of oil he kept tucked away and slathered his thick , twitching pipe with it for added slip. He damn near spasmed when he stroked.

🕶️ YungCipher: “Play with it messier. I wanna see that cream.”

She obeyed.

“Y-yes, daddy,” she whispered.

She dipped two fingers deep and pulled them out—slick. shiny. obscene.

🕶️ YungCipher: “Look at that shit.”

🕶️ YungCipher: “Put it in your mouth. Taste yourself.”

And she did.

Slow.

Tongue curling around her fingertips, licking up her own cream with a soft, shuddering moan.

That’s when Smoke really lost it.

His head tipped back.

His mouth opened.

His hand never stopped.

Fisting. Stroking. Balls clenching.

Breath hitched and voice caught in his throat like a man possessed.

This wasn’t just pleasure.

It was possession.

It was filth.

It was her.

He whispered it to the empty room—low, ragged, primal:

“…mine.”

The room was alive now.

Her camera was so close Smoke could count the glisten on every inch of that swollen, creamy pussy. The red glow of her LED strips made her skin shimmer like it was bathed in heat. Her thighs were trembling. Fingers soaked. Clit twitching under each pass.

And all around her?

The sounds.

Chime.

Chime.

Ting—ting-ting.

WHRR-click. (A DM.)

Ping. (Another tip.)

Tokens were flying like rain. Her screen lit up with usernames stacking fast.

🔥 NothinButNecks tipped 33 tokens.

“Zoom on your neck. Please. Please. Please. I need it.”

🍯 JustForTheTaste sent a rose.

“That little dab of gloss makin me crave you, mama. Say ‘sticky’ for me?”

She smiled faintly.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Smoke saw the flicker in her eyes. The one she always gave when she saw something she liked. But then she dipped those fingers lower. Spread wider. Brought the camera so close the focus shifted for a moment—went soft—then re-locked on that thick, sticky shine between her folds.

Chime.

Chime.

Chime.

💸 BILLS4U tipped 400 tokens.

“What’s your cash app, babygirl? I got a light bill to pay.”

Smoke froze. That name. That fucking name again. It always made his jaw clench. Always made his hand slow just enough to feel the burn of control slipping through his grip.

She giggled at the tip. Real. Sweet. Then looked into the lens and said:

“You wanna pay somethin’? Lemme pick the bill, baby. Rent’s due.”

WHRR-click.

(Another DM.)

Smoke’s eyes dropped to the corner of the chat. Watched the timestamp match the moment he tipped earlier. Timing too tight. Too aligned.

BILLS4U wasn’t him.

But the look in her eyes wondered. And the fact that she wondered? Made his dick throb in his palm. He stroked again. Slow. Twisting his wrist at the top. Watching that thick head gleam.

🕶️ YungCipher: “Pull it open for me. Both hands. Show me that drip.”

She saw it. Smiled.

Obeyed.

Both hands slid down, fingers spreading those fat outer lips wide, tugging until her inner folds stretched, juicy and pink and dripping. A soft strand of cream fell between her legs. Camera still locked in. The red glow made it shine like lacquered candy.

“Mm…you like that?” she asked, voice soft and messy, “That good good?”

🕶️ YungCipher: “That’s the prettiest pussy I ever seen.”

🕶️ YungCipher: “I’d suck on that clit till you couldn’t see straight.”

🕶️ YungCipher: “Stick my tongue in and lap that cream right outta you.”

🌴 SwampKing has entered the room.

“Ain’t no tongue like a Southern one. You still taste like peaches, babydoll?”

Smoke stopped. Just for a second. That name. That fucking creep. The one she blocked. The one she told the chat she banned after he sent that voice note. Saw someone who looked like you near that daycare. She hadn’t gone live for a week after that. Had changed the nameplate on her door. Stopped walking to the corner store. Smoke’s breathing turned cold. His fist paused around his dick. Grip tight. Knuckles flexed.

She didn’t respond to SwampKing. Didn’t read the comment aloud. But he watched her expression shift. Just for a second. A flicker. She scooted back slightly. Shoulders stiffened.

Chime.

Ting.

WHRR-click. (Another tip. Another message.)

🕶️ YungCipher: “Ignore that. Focus on me.”

🕶️ YungCipher: “Tilt back. Show daddy what’s mine.”

And she did.

Like she knew.

The camera tilted. Legs lifted. Her pussy filled the screen again—fat and messy, folds slicked in a wet halo of cream. Her clit throbbed under the red light, twitching with each breath.

“I gotchu, daddy,” she whispered.

And just like that—Smoke lost the last thread of restraint. He added more oil again in his hand.

Jerked rough now.

Fast.

Muscles flexed. Shoulders shaking.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, watching her rub herself harder, messier, the sound of slick fingers loud as hell through his headphones.

Squelch. Squelch. Moan.

Chime.

WHRR-click.

She whimpered. Called his name. Not his real name. But the only one that mattered right now.

“YungCipher…”

His stroke was brutal now. No finesse. No mercy. Just the wet sound of his fist gliding over thick, leaking skin—slick with spit, oil and pre-cum—pumping from root to tip in a rhythm made just for her. Muscles in his forearm jumping. Jaw clenched. Throat dry.

The way she looked? Spread wide. Fingers working both holes. Cream dripping down to her ass. Pussy throbbing with every moan. She was right there—

And so was he.

🕶️ YungCipher: “Keep fuckin’ playin in it till you squirt, baby.”

🕶️ YungCipher: “Show me how you lose it.”

🕶️ YungCipher: “Make that mess. I’ll fuckin drink it.”

She gasped.

Tilted her hips higher.

“Ohhh shit—yes, yes—daddy, I’m—”

SPLASH.

A loud, sudden squelch of her soaking the cam mat. She squirted hard, body bucking.

Camera shook.

She moaned loud and real, breathless, nearly sobbing through the aftershocks.

Smoke grunted.

Low.

Rough.

Then—

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

He came.

Hot, thick ropes spilled through his stroking hand, across his abdomen, some of it painting the flat of his chest. His abs tensed, back arched, muscles quaking through release.

He sat there.

Panting.

Breathing heavy in the dark, cum slick across his stomach and fingers, screen still glowing in front of him.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She froze. Not a moan. Not a giggle. Not a “hold on, baby.” Just full-body stillness. She looked toward the off-screen hallway.

Eyes wide.

Alert.

Then she reached fast—clicked something on her laptop—

“Sorry y’all, that’s my time for tonight. I’ll—I’ll be back tomorrow…”

Click.

Cam offline.

Smoke’s whole body stiffened.

No goodbye. No wink. No countdown or cash-out.

That wasn’t planned.

He wiped a hand across his stomach, sticky with release, and stared at the blank screen in silence.

His other hand had already saved the stream.

File saved to:

LaceyBlaze69 / Folder: POV / Subfolder: CipherOnly / Title: Show_11-03_PussyCreamRedLight.mp4

But his focus had already shifted. Who the fuck was at that door? He couldn’t shake it. Showered in silence. Didn’t touch his phone again. Didn’t clean the mess off his keyboard. Didn’t even hang the towel after drying off—just threw on black jeans, black hoodie, black fitted cap.

Grabbed his keys.

Glove compartment: loaded. Just in case.

His Charger roared to life like a low growl from the dark.

He peeled off into the night.

2:14 a.m.

East Decatur.

Parked two houses down from hers. Engine off.

He’d been here before, weeks ago—just to know.

To see.

To study her routines.

Now he sat there in the dark, a shadow in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other twitching with tension.

Upstairs.

Second floor window.

There.

Her light was on.

He leaned forward, slowly, adjusting the rearview just so.

She was in view now. Baby on her hip. Face flushed. Talking fast. No…arguing.

Smoke squinted.

The figure in front of her—a man. He couldn’t quite make him out. Low haircut. Tan hoodie. He moved like he had history in that space. Like he’d been there before. The baby was awake, clinging to her.

Smoke’s fists curled.

Jaw ticked.

One vein in his neck throbbed with pressure.

He didn’t like this.

Didn’t like the way the man stepped too close. Didn’t like the way she turned her face, like she didn’t want to be looked at. Didn’t like that she had to explain herself when just twenty minutes ago she was soaked and shining for him.

Not him.

Smoke.

Camera0ff. YungCipher.

Her only real one.

He leaned back in his seat, shadows swallowing his expression. Let the darkness breathe around him. But in his head? He was already playing out every scenario.

What if that man touched her? What if this whole time…she was his? What if the baby got hurt?

Smoke’s fingers tapped the steering wheel. His jaw popped from how tight it clenched. His pupils were wide. Voice low. Breath calm.

But inside? Inside he was ready.

“Touch her wrong,” he whispered, staring through the windshield, “See what the fuck happen.”

some men don’t knock—they monitor

The Charger sat like a beast in wait, all matte black and breathless in the shadows across the street. Engine quiet. Headlights off. Smoke leaned lower in the driver’s seat, one hand resting against the wheel, the other curled tight around the edge of the window.

Then: a baby’s cry. Thin. Hungry.

Then her voice.

Malaya.

Sharp. Tired. Cutting through the humid air like something wounded trying to sound strong. Smoke didn’t blink. Just reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a flat matte-black case, flipped the latch with a thumb. Inside: a thin rigged tablet, a directional receiver, and a stacked audio card wired to a portable power cell. It wasn’t a bug—he’d never crossed that line.

Didn’t have to.

The surveillance kit was tuned to a custom parabolic mic. It drank sound from distance—bounced it, filtered it, cleaned the air of wind and gap. A tool from his old days. Government ghostwork. Private contract work. Quiet work.

He slid the earpiece in.

At first: a whisper of static. Then came the voices, faint but sharpened under his tech.

“—told you, Twan, I can’t keep waitin’ on you. Messiah need diapers, wipes—”

“Man, don’t start that rent talk again.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed. The voice was casual. Lazy. Too loud for the space he occupied.

Antwan. That’s the name. The sperm donor.

“You know I been lookin’ for work.”

“You said that last month.”

“Why you actin’ brand new? You the one out here gettin’ slick money. Where that come from, huh? Some dude slidin’ through while the baby sleep?”

A pause.

Then Malaya—soft. Measured. Cold enough to cut a man’s ego down to the bone, “You don’t get to ask me anything no more.”

A breath. A shift. A door slams.

Smoke’s jaw flexed.

No words. Just that low hum of violence in his chest.

He tapped the screen, rewound the audio, saved the clip, then ran the visual playback from the lens tucked near the upstairs eaves. The man leaving was easy to track—caught by the backlight, hoodie pulled low but face visible long enough.

Smoke isolated the still. Zoomed in. Ran it through one of his burner search suites.

MATCH FOUND.

Name: Antwan “Twan” Riggins

Age: 42

Known Aliases: N/A

Employment History: Spotty—past construction, delivery, warehouse

Arrest Record: Petty theft (2013), misdemeanor assault (2016), evading child support (ongoing)

Address: Southside Projects, Unit 3B

Known Associates: Shanice Collier (girlfriend), three children, two confirmed baby mothers, one currently filed for restraining order

Smoke scrolled down slow. Saw a photo—Twan on a porch with a blunt in one hand and a red solo cup in the other, posing next to a grill. Caption: “Real daddies cook.”

He stared at it for a long second.

Real daddies show the fuck up.

He closed the tab. Shut the case. Set it aside like a tool he might use again.

Malaya’s upstairs light went off. Her window dimmed to black. The house quieted, but Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t drive off. He just sat. Watching. Memorizing.

The way the curtain in Messiah’s room had a small rip in the corner. The fact her porch light flickered twice before cutting off. He noted it all. Logged it in the part of his mind that catalogued threats, exits, patterns. This wasn’t just curiosity anymore. Wasn’t even just obsession. This was claim.

She was his now.

He didn’t say it out loud—but it rang through him, loud as gunfire in a hallway. When he finally turned the key, just before the sun thought about showing its face, he said it in a low voice only the Charger could hear:

“Ain’t nobody knockin’ on that door again…unless it’s me.”

You see…people think dominance is loud.

But real control? It’s quiet.

It’s knowing she’s walking around with a little piece of you inside her, and she ain’t even realize it yet. It’s waiting. Patient. Focused.

It’s watching her live her life like she still got choices.

When the truth is…she’s already mine.

Shelby, Mississippi–Ora Mae’s Home, Late Afternoon

The sun was beginning to fold behind the trees, bleeding amber through the warped glass of Ora Mae’s kitchen window. Cicadas had started their evening cry, and the smell of burning cedar wafted from the little iron cauldron near the hearth. The old house creaked with age and memory, every wooden slat steeped in rootwork and ritual, every shadow cast long like it remembered something terrible.

Ora Mae stirred a pot of sweet bay tea on the stove, her fingers thick with rings and stained with ash and tobacco. Her hair, salt-white and pinned up in rolls, was wrapped in a faded scarf printed with protective sigils. Her dress clung to her like smoke—deep purple with loose sleeves—and her feet were bare, always.

Annie sat at the round kitchen table, palms curled around a chipped ceramic mug. Her dark eyes were fixed on the candle in the center—black wax, burning low, flame flickering hard like it knew something it couldn’t say out loud.

“No word from her?” Annie asked quietly, voice like sorghum syrup and dread.

Ora Mae shook her head once, slow, “Not a whisper. Not a thread of cloth. Girl vanished like she ain’t never been born.”

She ladled more tea into Annie’s cup, then poured her own and eased herself down into the chair across from her, the wood groaning under the weight of years.

“I been searchin’ every which way I know,” she continued. “Through the cards. Through the bones. Through the dirt out near the crossroads. Can’t even find a shadow to chase.”

Annie’s fingers tightened around her mug.

“I hate feelin’ this useless,” she muttered, “Like I come all this way just to sit with my hands folded.”

Ora Mae gave a soft hum, reaching over to press her hand over Annie’s.

“You ain’t useless, baby. Sometimes just bringin’ your light helps the dead remember they ain’t alone. That girl gone, but her spirit’s tremblin’ close. She feel us lookin’. We just gotta wait ’til she wants to be found.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their tea. Outside, the wind passed through the trees with a low whistle, like it had a mouth and a warning.

Then Ora Mae leaned in a little, sniffing.

Not dramatic. Not rude. Just…curious.

Her nose twitched again.

She narrowed her eyes at Annie and tilted her head.

“What you been gettin’ into, chile?”

Annie looked up, confused, “What you mean?”

Ora Mae sniffed again, slower this time. Her expression changed—wrinkled deeper, sharper. She wasn’t looking at Annie so much as looking through her.

“You smell different.”

Annie blinked, “’Scuse me?”

“Mmm…somethin’ sweet. Not perfume. Not flower. Somethin’ older. Woven.” Her voice dropped, tone shifting, “You been ‘round a fae?”

Annie’s whole body tensed, “What?”

Ora Mae sat back in her chair like the air had answered for her, “I ain’t sayin’ you know it. They don’t always show they full hand. But you carryin’ somethin’ that don’t come from here. Somethin’ old. Somethin’ from… in-between.”

Annie’s brows furrowed, lips parting, “No. No, I—no, I ain’t been ‘round no fae.”

“Mmm.”

Ora Mae didn’t press. Just took a sip from her tea, eyes still locked on Annie’s face, “Might not be malicious,” she said softly. “Fae don’t always mean harm. But they do shift things. Just by bein’. They call trouble even when they lonely.” She tapped the table once with her nail, “You might wanna look close at who you lettin’ lay up in your space. Who in your bed. Who got their hands in your altar dust.”

Annie didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Her fingers twitched. Her mind flicked back—to Amelia’s touch, her kiss, the shine in her eyes after love-making, the way the floorboards in the house felt different now.

But she said nothing. Just smiled, faint and small.

“I’ll be careful.”

Ora Mae watched her for a long moment, then reached for a leather pouch beside the cauldron, “Take this. Sprinkle it near your threshold when you get home. Just in case.”

Annie took it with both hands, “Thank you.”

They sat in silence again. The candle’s flame had calmed. The shadows had shifted. But Annie’s thoughts were not still. Something inside her had begun to stir. And she didn’t know yet whether it was fear…or understanding.

Afternoon—Clarksdale Train Depot, Summer 1932

The train pulled in slow, screeching against steel like it had something to say. Smoke hung back near the end of the platform, arms crossed over his broad chest, a cigarette burning low between his lips. His black suspenders were loose over a dusty cream shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing strong forearms flecked with engine grease and bayou grit. He looked like home. Like danger wrapped in devotion.

Annie stepped down from the train in a slow, poised glide. She was dressed in a cinnamon-colored wrap dress that hit just above her ankles, her dark skin glowing against the fabric like burnished mahogany. Her braids were wrapped up into a soft crown, loose tendrils kissing the sides of her face, and slung over one shoulder was her patched-up carpetbag stuffed full with roots, oils, books, and the faint smell of frankincense. She carried a smaller satchel in the crook of her elbow, and in her other hand, a wooden box carved with sigils. Her heart clenched, then swelled. Seven days gone, and it felt like a season. Longer than she’d intended. She was radiant and tired, hips swaying as she approached.

Her eyes scanned the crowd. When they landed on him, that smile lit her face. It wasn’t wide, wasn’t loud. But it was his. Soft around the mouth. Tender. And it struck him square in the gut. Smoke tossed the cigarette, letting it curl into the dirt, and stepped forward.

Smoke moved.

Boots crunching the gravel. Shoulders cutting through people. And before she could say his name, he was there—taking her bags in one smooth sweep, setting them on the truck bed, and closing the space between them until nothing fit but breath and heat. No words. Just arms. He gripped her tight around the waist and lifted her, spinning her once as her hat tipped back and her laugh rang out. She started to speak. But he didn’t let her. He cupped her face in both hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks, and crashed his mouth against hers.

Tongue, lips, teeth—all of it. Hungry. Heavy. Desperate. Like something inside him had cracked wide open and spilled into her mouth. Annie gasped into the kiss, startled, but melted the second his tongue slipped deeper. Her back hit the truck hard enough to rattle it. He pressed into her with his whole body, swallowing her little sounds, groaning low when her fingers fisted in his shirt. When they finally pulled apart, both panting, her lips were kiss-bruised. She blinked up at him, dazed and breathless.

“What was that for?” she whispered, voice like gravel honey.

Smoke leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, nose grazing the bridge of her own, “I’m glad you back,” he murmured, thick-voiced, “Missed you somethin’ awful.”

Her hands came up to stroke the strong curve of his arms, grounding him, thumb brushing over his knuckles, “I missed you too, baby.” He kissed her again—slower this time, but still deep, tongues dancing like they needed to relearn each other. When he pulled back, he ran his thumb over the corner of her mouth, wiped the wet away like it was sacred. Then he opened her door and helped her up into the cab with care, sliding her bags behind the seat. As he started the engine, gravel crunching beneath the wheels, he glanced sideways, stealing another look at her like he couldn’t help it. The curve of her hip, the way her dress clung to her thighs, the quiet strength in her posture.

“How’d it go in Shelby?” he asked.

“No luck,” she said, her voice dipping, “Ora Mae and me tried everything. Cards, mirror, bones, conjure. That girl…she’s out there somewhere. But there’s somethin’ dark coverin’ her like a veil. Ora say she couldn’t even feel her spirit right.”

Smoke’s brow furrowed as he nodded, “I don’t like that.”

“Neither do I,” she replied. Then she shifted, “How’s things at the house? And the shop?”

Another pause.

Smoke licked his bottom lip, then tapped the wheel twice, “Same. Ain’t nothin’ broke. Just…different.”

“Different how?” she asked.

“I can’t explain it,” he said honestly, “Like there’s a buzz in the air. Like I been dreamin’ in my wake-time. Like the house don’t feel like ours.”

Annie nodded slowly.

Ora Mae’s words curled in her ears like smoke.

You been around a fae?

She blinked it away.

“And Amelia?” she asked casually.

Smoke’s eyes flicked sideways. Then back to the road, “Last I seen she was with Stack at the Shack. I think they went to town.”

“Mmm.” Annie smirked faintly, “You enjoy some of that sweet pussy while I was gone?”

That pulled a low laugh from him. He turned to her fully now, hand sliding to her thigh, “Once,” he said, voice rough, “She was sweet. Real sweet. Helped let off the cum I been holdin’ in. But I want you, Annie.” His eyes roamed over her like he meant it. Like he’d been starving, “I don’t want Amelia in our bed no more.”

Annie’s eyes lifted slightly, surprised but not angry. Her mouth parted just a little, “No?”

“Nah,” he said, his voice flat and final, “You gave me permission. I took it. But somethin’ about her…I can’t explain it. She too much light. Too much shadow. I don’t want her between us.”

Annie stared at him a long moment. She leaned in, brushing her lips over his cheek, then whispered at his ear, “Then don’t let her in no more.” Annie lifted a brow, “What happened?”

He shook his head, “Nothin’ yet. But…we’ll talk.”

He pulled her into another kiss—slower this time. Thicker with meaning. The truck rolled on down the dirt road, the Mississippi sun painting gold across the windshield. And though neither said it, something had shifted. The wind had changed. Whatever lived in the air around Amelia, it had changed them both. And now, as Clarksdale came back into view, they could feel it pressing closer. But for now, she was back. And that was enough.

The gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the truck as Smoke pulled up to the house, easing it into park with a low groan of the engine. The late afternoon sun draped everything in a golden hush, the cicadas singing their fevered song from the trees like they’d never stopped since she left. But as Annie stepped down from the truck and her boots hit the dirt, her skin prickled.

Something was different.

The house looked the same—shaded beneath the same wide oaks, porch still sagging with time and ghosts, the windows still smudged with dew and memory—but the air had shifted. The house felt fuller. Heavier. Not with dust or time, but with something unseen. The hair on Annie’s arms lifted. Her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth. Smoke watched her. Watched the way she froze for just a second with her hand on the front door, eyes narrowed as if listening to something only she could hear.

She turned to him, “How things been?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking down before meeting her gaze. “Been alright. Mostly. Stack been around. You know how he is.”

Her eyes lingered, And Amelia?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just opened the door and stepped inside. The screen door gave its familiar creeaaak, followed by the slam of the wood catching. Annie stepped in behind him. The moment she crossed the threshold, it hit her like perfume and lightning. A glow in the air. Not light, but something shimmering. Thick and golden. It didn’t sparkle—it pulsed. Like something had bled sweet magic all over her house in her absence. The scent of honey and crushed blooms hung faint in the corners, undercut by something darker—rot and old dirt. Something buried. Annie dropped her bags by the door.

“Smoke.”

He turned, jaw tightening, “I had a dream.”

She stilled.

“Ain’t like no regular one,” he added, “Felt real. Too real.”

She crossed her arms, voice low, “Tell me.”

He sighed, then began, “I was in the juke. Me and Stack. Place was hot, music playin’ slow, work bein’ done. Amelia was there. All lit up like sugarcane on fire. She—she let us have her. Right there. We both fucked her. One after the other.”

Annie blinked slowly. Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

“I woke up smellin’ her,” he said, voice cracking a little at the edge, “Sweatin’. Shook. Swore I had her on me.”

Annie’s gaze flicked up, “You thinkin’ it was a vision?”

Smoke hesitated, “Maybe.”

“Dreams like that don’t come uninvited,” she said softly.

“I saw her in the mirror too,” he added, voice darker now, “I was lookin’ and she—she was smilin’ back at me. But she wasn’t there. I shot the damn mirror.”

Annie’s mouth twitched, “You what?”

He led her down the hallway, “C’mere. Lemme show you.”

They stepped into their shared bedroom, and there it was—the mirror, shattered clean down the center, the top half cracked like a spider’s web. A bullet hole in the wall behind it. Annie stared, stunned. Her voice dropped low. “You know what it means to shoot your own mirror?”

“I wasn’t thinkin’. Just reacted.”

She stepped closer, “You cursed your own reflection, Elijah.”

He flinched. She only called him that when it was serious.

Annie’s voice turned cold, “What the hell is goin’ on that you ain’t sayin?”

Smoke didn’t speak right away. Just stared at her, hands curled into fists, chest rising slow and thick.

Then: “I fucked her…”

Annie blinked. Once. Twice. Then she shrugged.

“Yeah. I told you to take care of her if it came to that. You did. So what’s the problem?”

“I..I been feelin’ different, Annie. Like I’m possessed. Like I need her to breathe.”

“Ain’t your fault, Smoke…she got that touch. I feel the same way. But you ain’t sayin’ everything. You holdin’ something…”

But her voice didn’t carry judgment. Just calm. Like she’d already made peace with it. Smoke didn’t answer. He just grabbed her hand and led her down the hall. They stopped in front of Amelia’s room. The door was closed. He pushed it open. The room felt wetter than the others. Not in moisture—but in emotion. Like it had been humming while they were gone. The scent was dizzying—rosewater, salt, candle smoke, something older. Another mirror. This one faced the window and it was cracked too. Smoke knelt beside the bed. Reached under. Pulled up a slatted plank of wood, rough and split at the edge. From beneath it, he drew two small jars.

He held them out.

Annie didn’t take them at first. Just looked. One jar was thick with dark liquid—murky, viscous, like something that had spoiled from the inside out. Twigs, nails, bone fragments, bits of paper all suspended in the sludge. The other? Honey. Pure, golden, clinging to the sides like it had a heartbeat. A photo inside, edges curling. Dried rose petals floating like drowned whispers. Annie finally took them in her hands. One in each palm.

“She made these,” Smoke said, voice low, “Right? Them jars you do?”

Annie’s mouth was dry. Her conjure senses roared. She turned them in her hands, lips moving silently as she felt the pulse of the work. One jar spoke of rot. Decay. The slow killing of a man’s essence. Not instant. Not poison. But withering. The other jar sang sweetly. A song of longing. Of binding. Of pulling what she wanted closer. Of keeping.

“This here’s a rot jar,” Annie said, almost breathless, “This one…this one’s sweetenin’. Like the ones I make.” She looked up at him, face stricken, “Lord, what you done did, girl…”

Smoke sat back on his heels, “She ain’t right,” he muttered.

Annie looked at him sharply.

“She make me feel like I’m losin’ my mind,” he said, raw, “Got me actin’—thinkin’ like I ain’t never thought before. I sniffed her damn drawers the other night. Like some kinda dog. Snuck in and stole ‘em.”

Annie raised a brow.

“I ain’t proud,” he went on, voice thick, “But I can’t stop. It’s like there’s somethin’ buried in her skin. Power or poison—I don’t know which.” He looked up, eyes dark, “But I gotta know what she is.”

Annie stood there, heart thudding. Looking down at the jars in her hand like they might shatter if she breathed too hard. Whatever Amelia was hiding—it wasn’t small.

And Annie? She’d find out what. Even if it burned.

The house stood still. The porch creaked beneath Annie’s weight as she stepped up, glancing once at the door before her eyes turned east—toward the trees, toward the shack that held all her work, her altar, her knowing. Ora Mae’s voice stirred in her head like a breath of wind:

“When you get home, wash your hands in blessed water and rub ’em with salt. Walk around your place backwards and see what makes the hairs on your neck rise.”

She stepped off the porch again. Her boots pressed through dry dirt as she made her way toward the shack. The same path Amelia had walked a hundred times. The sun was high now, but the trees cast shadows long and thin. The air was still, but not quiet.

Birdsong faded. Crickets stopped. The silence felt…expectant. The door to her hoodoo shack opened with a familiar groan. Inside, everything was as she left it—neat bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, glass jars filled with oils, powders, roots. The altar sat at the back wall, layered with offerings: coins, carved bones, photographs, a silver mirror wrapped in red twine. She slipped off her gloves and lit a fresh candle—black, then white, then red. The flame wavered, as if unsure. She didn’t speak yet. Just moved through the motions. Annie filled the copper bowl on her altar with blessed water. She dipped her hands in and washed them slowly, her fingertips tingling.

Then she rubbed coarse salt between her palms, whispering a prayer:

“Let me see what’s hid. Let me feel what’s near. Let me know what’s mine, and what don’t belong here.”

She took up her walking stick—not for support, but for power.

And she stepped out.

Just like Ora Mae said, she walked the perimeter of the house backwards. Slow. One foot behind the other. Eyes open, neck tense, senses reaching past the veil. When she reached the southern window, her left hand twitched.

Goosebumps chased up her arms.

A shadow lingered by the flowerbed where Amelia often sat and hummed to herself.

Annie paused.

The dirt there looked stirred. Not dug, but shifted. Like someone had danced there, or…cast something. She crouched down and touched the ground.

Warm. Too warm.

She whispered, “You been layin’ tricks in my yard, girl?”

Her voice barely made a ripple in the thickening air.

But something heard her. She stood slowly and turned her head back toward the house. From inside, Smoke waited in silence. But outside, Annie now knew: something other had walked her grounds. It was soft and light and honey-sweet—but beneath that sweetness was a shimmer of wrong.

Not evil. But not human.

She adjusted her shawl and made her way back toward the porch.

“One step at a time,” she whispered, Ora Mae’s warning echoing like drums.

Annie didn’t run. Didn’t panic. But the next time she lit her altar candles, she would be looking for Amelia. Not as a friend. Not as a lover. But as a mystery that needed unbraiding.

The sun had begun its slow descent, stretching long orange shadows across the dirt road as Stack turned the wheel, guiding the car down a narrow back route thick with pine and hush. The windows were down, wind slipping in like fingers through Amelia’s hair, tossing it over her shoulder in dark, silken waves. She sat quiet, her hands folded in her lap, eyes locked on the passing trees like they might carry answers she didn’t yet know how to speak. Stack glanced at her out the corner of his eye. She’d been still the whole ride. Not cold. Just…quiet. But it wasn’t the good kind. He could feel her retreating, inch by inch. Could taste the storm brewing in her silence.

“I keep takin’ backroads lately,” he muttered, almost to himself, “Ain’t like I’m scared’a traffic.”

She didn’t smile. Just exhaled slowly, watching the road peel away in front of them.

“You think she still in town?” he asked.

Amelia nodded, barely, “If I know her…she’ll stay ‘til she gets what she came for.”

Stack gripped the wheel tighter, “And you ain’t ready to tell me what that is?”

Her lips pressed together. Her jaw worked. And still, she said nothing. He pulled the car off the road, gravel popping beneath the tires as they rolled to a stop in a shaded curve between two cypress trees. The cicadas were singing loud in the trees overhead, but between them, the air sat thick and expectant. Stack shifted into park and turned to face her fully.

“Amelia.”

She looked at him then. Finally.

He didn’t speak again. Just let the silence stretch and press—like a hand to the back of her neck, coaxing truth up from where she’d buried it.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet, “It ain’t easy.”

“I ain’t askin’ for easy,” he said, “I’m askin’ for real.”

She looked down at her hands. One of them trembled, and she clenched it into a fist to still it.

“She’s here because of me,” Amelia said, “Because of what I did.”

Stack’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t move. Didn’t push. Amelia licked her lips. Her voice was raw, like something torn open.

“She raised me after my grandmother died. Her and Nathaniel. He was her husband. A doctor. A preacher. A good man…or that’s what people thought.”

Stack’s eyes narrowed.

“He was…kind to me. At first. I was a girl in grief. Lost. He comforted me.”

A pause. Her chest rose, then fell.

“And then…it changed.”

Stack’s jaw locked, the muscle ticking.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she whispered, “I never meant to fall for him. But I did. And he—he loved me too. Or maybe he just needed something he couldn’t find in her. Either way, it wasn’t right.” She paused, waiting for him to say something. He didn’t. Just let her keep going, “We kept it quiet. For years. I thought…maybe we’d run away. Maybe we’d find some kind of freedom in each other.” Her voice broke, “But we didn’t.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes now, but she didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

“One night, I told him I was leaving. That it was over. He didn’t take it well. He followed me out to the bayou. I tried to explain. I was upset, angry. My…I’ve always been tied to my feelings. And that night—something inside me snapped.”

Stack’s brows drew tight. The silence between them crackled.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she said, voice cracking, “I swear to God, Stack. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“What happened?”

Her eyes finally met his—and they were wild. Vulnerable. Pleading, “He drowned. I didn’t even touch him. I just…I lost control. He stepped into the water and never came out.”

Silence.

Amelia’s shoulders slumped. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly so small.

“I ran. I left everything. Celine never forgave me. She knew, or she guessed. And now she’s here.”

Stack stared at her. The full weight of her confession pressed against his ribs like bricks. He could feel his pulse in his throat, his ears, the tips of his fingers. This girl—this woman—was danger. Soft and sharp. Sugar and blood.

“You ain’t scared of me yet?” she asked, almost like a dare.

Stack looked away for a second, jaw clenched. Then slowly, he turned back to her, “Terrified,” he said, voice low, “But I still wanna keep you.”

Amelia blinked, stunned. Her mouth parted like she wanted to speak, but the words were gone. Stack reached across the seat and touched her face, thumb tracing the soft curve of her cheek.

“I don’t know what the hell you are,” he said, “But you got me wantin’ to protect you from folks I don’t understand yet. From your past. From mine. From all of it.”

She let out a breath, shaky and soft. A tear slipped free, and he caught it with his thumb, “I don’t deserve that,” she whispered.

“Maybe not. But I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

And for the first time in weeks, Amelia closed her eyes and let someone hold her truth without dropping it. The sky was honey-thick and rust-colored by the time Stack pulled the truck into an alleyway just off Delta Avenue. Heat still clung to the brick buildings, the air syrupy with the scent of sweet pipe smoke, magnolia, and something faintly metallic drifting off the train tracks nearby. Folks were heading home or slipping into storefront bars to escape the dying light—shadows stretched long, gossip moved low, and Clarksdale leaned into the hush of early evening. Amelia sat low in the passenger seat, cotton dress plain and wrinkled from the ride. Her face was calm, but her fingers twisted the hem of her skirt in her lap.

“Sure you wanna do this?” Stack asked, voice like gravel. He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror.

She didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “I have to.”

Stack nodded once, shoved open the door, and helped her out. They ducked into the deep porch shadows of the old barbershop across from the modest boarding house. The wood beneath them creaked faintly with their weight, the air thick between them. They stood close, silent, the world going golden around the edges.

Then the boarding house door opened. Celine stepped out as if she’d never belonged to dirt or sweat or consequence. She floated down the stairs in a gown the color of rain-kissed pearls, her gloved hands clasped around a clutch too expensive for a place like this. Her hair was pinned in perfect waves. Her mouth painted deep red. And her eyes—cold, lined with calculation—swept the street before she turned and began walking west. Amelia didn’t move, but her whole body changed. Her shoulders locked. Her spine went rigid. Her breath stalled like her chest forgot how to take it in.

“She always did dress for the sermon she was gonna preach,” Amelia murmured, bitterly.

Stack leaned forward just enough to track her path, “She ain’t just walkin’. She headed somewhere.”

Amelia’s whisper shook, “She’s sniffin’ around the way she always does…using money like scent bait.”

They waited, breaths shallow, watching Celine disappear past the corner. Stack tugged on Amelia’s hand and they followed, ducking down a narrow back path that cut behind a feed store and spilled them out two buildings down. There, they paused. Hidden in the alcove of a shuttered dry goods shop, they watched. Celine had stopped beneath a wrought-iron lamp post. The golden light made her shine like something holy. But the man she was waiting for had no such softness. He approached with slow confidence, every movement precise. A tall Creole man—light-skinned enough to pass, clean-shaven, dressed in a cream suit that didn’t wrinkle and a Panama hat pulled low. His shoes were mirror-bright. His posture military. Stack didn’t like the way he carried himself—like he was used to being paid to find what other people wanted hidden.

“Who the hell is that?” Stack whispered.

Amelia shook her head, “I don’t know him.”

They watched as Celine and the man exchanged a few quiet words. Then she reached into her bag and pulled something out. Paper. Thin, maybe a photo.

She handed it to him.

The man nodded once, tucked it into his jacket, and tipped his hat. Then he turned and walked away. Celine didn’t follow. She stayed beneath the lamplight for a long beat, then turned on her heel and started back toward the boarding house.

Amelia’s hand had gone ice cold in Stack’s, “Shit,” she whispered, “That’s one of my photographs I bet. She’s…she’s putting money behind it now.”

Stack’s jaw locked. His grip tightened, “She handin’ out your face like a damn wanted poster.”

Amelia looked up at him, “You see now?”

“I see,” he said, “And I ain’t just gon’ stand around lettin’ this unfold.”

She looked down. Her voice broke a little, “She don’t care who she hurts. She’ll use folks to dig till she gets what she came for.”

He reached out, gently gripping her chin, turning her face up, “You sure you wanna keep runnin’?”

Beat.

“‘Cause I can end this. One way or another.”

Amelia blinked, throat working, “You don’t know what she’ll do if she finds out the whole truth.”

Stack leaned in, eyes dark and unshaken, “I know what I’ll do if she keep playin’.”

Then, he let her go. But not far.

They stood in the thickening dusk as the boarding house swallowed Celine back up, her white dress trailing behind her like the ghost of a grudge. And across the street, hidden in shadow, Stack stood beside Amelia and swore—if that woman meant to hurt her, she’d have to go through him first.

The night air pressed close to the shack, warm and humming. Outside, the frogs had already begun their slow percussion, but inside Annie’s root‑room the sound felt miles away—swallowed by candlelight and smoke. She moved like a woman half in prayer, half in battle. Her skirts brushed the packed‑earth floor as she circled the small table, laying out a white sheet of muslin. Two jars sat in the center: one cloudy gold, one the color of spoiled molasses. Their glass bodies caught the candlelight and threw it back in bruised shades of amber and brown. Smoke sat on the low bench near the door, hat in his hands, watching her. The lines of his shoulders were drawn tight. He’d faced men with guns and not felt this kind of unease.

Annie uncorked the first jar. The air inside was sweet, cloying—honey thick with old perfume and something faintly metallic, “That’s the callin’ kind,” she spoke, “To draw, to sweeten, to make folks lean your way.” She set it down and opened the other. The smell hit them both: sour, wet, and low. Rot and river mud, “And this one,” she said softly, “ain’t meant to bring nothin’ but ruin. You don’t make this by accident.”

She closed her eyes, touched both jars with her fingertips, and whispered words that weren’t meant for human hearing. The candles flickered, flame bending toward her voice.

Smoke shifted, uneasy, “You think she learned this somewhere?”

Annie shook her head, “No. This come natural. Like a snake learnin’ to shed its skin.”

From a shelf she took a small black bowl and filled it halfway with clear water drawn from the well before sunset. Into it she dropped a silver coin and a sprig of yarrow. Then she reached for a small velvet pouch, loosening the string. Inside lay an old finger bone, smooth from years of handling.

“This belonged to my mama’s mama,” she said, “Used when the sight need guidin’.” She looked at Smoke, “Give me somethin’ of yours. Something that’s been close to her.”

He hesitated, then pulled a short strand of hair from his head, rough and thick between his fingers, “She brushed past me once,” he said quietly, “and it felt like lightning in my ribs. That close enough?”

Annie took the hair, twisted it around the bone, and dropped both into the bowl. The water darkened instantly, like ink spreading.

“Now watch,” she whispered.

She began to hum—a low, circular sound that wasn’t melody but movement. The air in the shack thickened; the candles leaned in. The surface of the water shivered, though neither of them breathed.

Smoke leaned forward, “What’s it doin’ that for?”

Annie didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the bowl. The silver coin vanished beneath the surface as if pulled down by a hand. Bubbles rose, then stilled. A faint light began to pulse in the blackness—soft at first, then steady, like a heart under skin.

Annie’s breath hitched. The glow wasn’t white. It was gold, the color of a candle seen through honey.

“That’s her,” she whispered, “That shine right there. It ain’t from this side.”

The glow grew brighter, swirling, forming the outline of a woman’s face—Amelia’s face—but blurred, eyes gleaming like two coins at the bottom of a river. Smoke jerked back, chair scraping. The candles flared tall and blue.

Annie forced her voice steady, “You see it now? That girl don’t conjure; she is conjure. Born with it in her bones.”

The image wavered, then collapsed into the water, leaving the bowl still and dark again. The smell of iron and jasmine filled the shack. For a long time neither of them spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the cooling glass jars.

Finally Annie said, “She ain’t human the way we know human. Somethin’ older made her.”

Smoke dragged a hand over his face, eyes wide but steady, “Then we best find out what, before it finds us.”

Annie’s gaze moved to the candles, their flames now steady again, “We will,” she said, “But first, I’m gon’ need dirt from the graveyard, red clay, a bird’s heart, and somethin’ she wore close. A slip. A ribbon. Anything that held her heat.”

Smoke rose slowly, the bench groaning under his weight, “You really think her touch still on it?”

Annie looked up at him, the candlelight burning in her eyes, “If she is what I think she is,” she said, “it ain’t never left.”

Outside, the frogs went quiet, as if the whole swamp had leaned in to listen. Then the wind stirred the curtains, carrying the faint scent of peaches and honeysuckle through the open door. Smoke turned toward it, jaw tightening.

“Smell that?” he spoke.

Annie did. And the look they shared said everything—that whatever had been hiding in Amelia’s sweetness had started to stir.

The sun had nearly vanished when Smoke crossed the treeline. The world behind Annie’s shack gave way to a low, shadowed slope lined with crooked pines and half-rotted fences, their posts leaning like tired men in prayer. The smell of pine needles, damp clay, and the faint scent of something dead hung on the breeze. Even the birds had gone quiet.

Smoke moved with purpose.

The list burned in his mind, each word etched like a ghost’s whisper.

“Cicely Brantley.”

The name had weight.

He found the graveyard tucked behind a thicket near Widow Clarke’s place—half-forgotten, eaten by ivy and time. Crickets stirred as he stepped through the rusted gate. The air grew colder. He moved carefully, his boots crunching over moss and brittle leaves. His eyes scanned stone after stone until he saw it—tilted to the right, the angel cracked down the middle like a spine split by sorrow. Cicely Brantley. 1832.

Smoke dropped to a crouch.

He removed his pocketknife, dug into the damp earth just beneath the headstone. The smell hit him first—old rot, mildew, something coppery beneath it all. The dirt clung to his fingers like something alive. He scooped a handful into the small canvas pouch Annie had given him.

Just as he was about to stand, he heard it. A creak. Soft. Far behind him. He froze. Muscles tensed. But when he turned, nothing was there. Only the still hush of trees. He spit to the side, muttered under his breath, “Ain’t got time for this,” and tucked the pouch into his coat.

Next: The Rusted Nail.

The juke joint loomed like a beast in the blue-dark. The east corner beam was wrapped in creeping jasmine, the scent heavy and intoxicating. Smoke slid his knife beneath the overgrown vines, fingers finding the head of a crooked, rusted nail jutting just beneath the wood line. He gave a low grunt as he worked it free. The nail groaned from the wood, fighting him like it didn’t want to leave. When it finally gave, it popped out with a squeal, and the entire frame gave a single creak—like the bones of the place were watching. Smoke didn’t linger. He turned, tucked the nail into his coat with the grave dirt, and slipped back into the trees.

Then: The Black-Eyed Susans.

They grew near the old creekbed down by Devil’s Hollow. He remembered Annie saying they bloomed this time of year like sentries—watching, warding, whispering. He found a patch glowing yellow against the dusk, their black centers turned like open eyes. He knelt, brushing dirt from their roots with his bare hand. He plucked them gently—three whole blossoms—and wrapped their stems in twine. A chill swept through the trees. He stood still for a moment, eyes scanning the dark. He thought again of the dream. Of Amelia’s voice in the dark. Of Stack’s face twisted with pleasure and warning. Of her skin glowing like heat.

He shook it off.

No time.

Final Stop: The Chicken.

Ebony waited near the coop behind the shack. She was bigger than he remembered, coal-black feathers slick with dew, her eyes bright and suspicious.

“C’mere, girl,” he whispered, whistling low—two sharp bursts.

She blinked. Cocked her head. Then, like some memory returned to her bones, she stepped toward him, cautious but willing. He scooped her up gently. Her feathers were warm, pulsing with life. She gave a quiet cluck, no fuss. Smoke tucked her under one arm like a delicate secret. He made his way back toward the shack. The moon had climbed now, soft and full behind a veil of cloud. When he reached the porch, Annie was waiting—candles already lit, white smoke curling from a small cauldron behind her.

She didn’t speak. She just opened the door, the air heavy with pine oil and salt, and Smoke stepped through. With every item on his person and the chicken cradled in his arms, he crossed the threshold into a space between worlds. The wind changed when the last candle was lit. It hissed low beneath the floorboards of Annie’s shack, curled beneath the walls like a serpent in prayer. Smoke stood by the doorway, one hand still damp from the creek water he used to rinse his face, the other resting on the holster at his hip—not out of threat, but out of habit. Annie crouched before the altar she’d built, a careful weave of bone, feather, flower, and flame. Ebony, the black hen, perched in her corner, eerily quiet.

Above them, the smoke curled heavy and slow. Something was here. And it wasn’t hiding anymore. Annie pressed her palm to the floor, murmuring a chant under her breath. Words too old for the tongue, passed from grandmother to granddaughter, split by fire and loss, bound back together with honey and grit. She’d prepared this rite before—for clarity, for truth, for finding what don’t wanna be found. But never like this. Never for someone she loved. The heat of the candles swelled in the room, and a gust of wind slammed the door shut behind Smoke. He flinched. The jar in his coat—that jar—had started humming again. Faint. Like a heartbeat beneath the glass.

He reached in, withdrew the honey jar first. The sweetening one. Annie didn’t look up, but her voice was flat when she said, “Put it down on the cloth.”

He did.

The second jar—the rot jar—he placed beside it, careful. It didn’t hum. But it stank. Sweet and wrong, like spoiled syrup and old roses. Something foul.

Annie turned.

She crouched before the jars, long skirt spread like a fan beneath her knees, eyes glowing in the firelight. Her hands hovered just above the glass, trembling.

“She made these,” Smoke said, low, “why?”

Annie stared at him.

Smoke’s eyes narrowed, “You told me once sweetenin’ jars was made for love. For drawin’ in what you want.”

“They are,” Annie whispered, “But it’s more than that.”

She touched the lid of the honey jar.

It jolted beneath her hand. The flame nearest to it flickered blue.

Smoke stiffened, “The fuck was that?”

Annie kept her hand steady, “It’s strong. Stronger than I ever felt.” Her throat tightened, “She made it when she first got here. I thought it was for me,” Annie said, voice cracking, “Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. But it don’t matter now. It worked.”

Smoke’s brow furrowed.

Annie’s hand lifted, trembling. Her lips parted as she stared at the shimmer in the jar—how the honey seemed to breathe, to swirl slowly even though it had been sealed tight.

“She was stewin’ in it,” Annie said, “Bathin’ us in it. Me. You. Stack.”

He flinched.

“She sweetened us all.”

The room fell into silence.

Smoke took a step back. His gaze darkened, jaw tense, “You think she did that on purpose?”

“I don’t know,” Annie said softly, “But that don’t change what it did.”

The jar pulsed.

Annie picked it up, brought it closer to the flame. Inside, the contents shimmered like golden molasses threaded with glints of dust. But the magic inside wasn’t just hoodoo—it was older. Hungrier. Something that fed.

“Your obsession,” Annie said, staring at Smoke now, “Your dreams. Stack’s possessiveness. Me…losin’ myself in her. Fallin’ so deep I couldn’t see straight.” She turned to look him dead in the eye, “That jar did it. Not all of it—but enough.”

Smoke swallowed hard.

“She’s a feu follet,” Annie said.

The words landed like a thunderclap.

Smoke blinked, “A what?”

Annie’s voice was hushed, steady, “Fae. A kind of spirit, a trickster…sometimes they show as lights, other times like women. Draw you in. Burn sweet. Feed off the wantin’.” Her mouth trembled, “Some call ‘em will-o’-the-wisps. But ours? Our people down here? We call ‘em feu follet.”

Silence.

Smoke stared at the jar, “So you tellin’ me she…not human?”

“She ain’t just human.”

Smoke sat down hard on the bench. His fingers gripped the edge like it might break. He looked sick, “Goddamn.”

Annie nodded, voice cracking, “Yeah.”

The flame hissed.

He closed his eyes, “I felt it. All of it. Even before that dream.” He paused, “She got under my skin. Deep. Like she was put there.”

Annie knelt across from him, shoulders slumped.

“She got into all of us.”

They sat in silence, the truth thick in the room. The sweetening jar shimmered like gold wine. The rot jar beside it sat quiet, dark, and dead.

“What about that one?” Smoke asked, nodding to it.

Annie touched it.

Unlike the other, this one didn’t jolt. It moaned.

A soft, sloshy sigh escaped the lid. Annie grimaced, “It used to be sweet too. I can feel it. The energy’s shifted. Something good turned foul.”

Smoke leaned forward, “You think it’s cursed?”

“No,” Annie said slowly, “Not cursed. Changed.” She stared into the thick, blackened honey. Her eyes narrowed, “Something died.”

“Like what?”

Annie hesitated. “Could’ve been a hope. Could’ve been love. But whatever it was…it rotted from the inside.”

She held it to her ear.

And then, quietly, she whispered, “Or someone.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

“Someone died,” he said flatly.

“I think so.”

They exchanged a look. Fear blooming behind Smoke’s eyes. Annie set the jar down carefully, then sat back on her heels.

The shack held its breath.

Even the wind outside seemed to still—no rustle of leaves, no creak of the old cypress boards, no birdsong. Just the slow tick of dread inside Annie’s ribs as she leaned closer to the jar.

The rot jar.

Heavy. Viscous.

Too dark for the light to pierce.

Something about it had always felt off, not just the way it had been hidden beneath the floorboards like a secret too loud to bury, but the scent, the weight, the quiet hum of something unnatural locked inside. Now that she’d lit the herbs—calendula, red brick dust, and graveyard grit—the jar had twitched. Annie knew the signs. The dead were paying attention. Smoke stood behind her. He’d kept still this whole time, jaw tight, arms folded, that shotgun sense of him scanning every inch of the room. His presence was quiet, but Annie felt the tension radiating off him like heat from a stove.

“I’m not openin’ it,” she said, eyes never leaving the jar, “That’s askin’ for trouble.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

She reached for her small brass bowl, the one etched with sigils her grandmother taught her never to speak aloud. In it, she poured a bit of stormwater she’d caught during last month’s thunder. Whispered over it. Dropped a hair from her own head into the bowl and then—finally—lifted the rot jar, steady as prayer.

She held it just above the stormwater and whispered: “If what’s buried got a name, let it rise. Show me what’s beneath.”

The bowl trembled.

The honey within the jar shivered like something alive. And then—through the dark swirl, the ink began to lift. A name. Smudged, black, but legible now.

Nathaniel.

Annie’s spine snapped straight.

Smoke stepped forward, “Nathaniel?” he echoed, voice low.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the name, as if saying it again might cause it to vanish.

“Nathaniel,” she whispered again, “That was… that was her lover. Back before she came here.”

“You sure?”

“She told me once. Just once. Never gave a last name. Just said…Nathaniel broke her heart. That it ended bad. Never said how.” She looked down again, “Now I know why she never said.”

Smoke stepped beside her, eyes scanning the jar, “You think she killed him?”

Annie didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, “I think…something happened. Something big. Big enough to make her run.”

They stood in silence.

“She left Louisiana right after it happened,” Annie added, her voice quieter now, “Found her way to me like a leaf on the wind. I thought she was just bruised. Thought time would heal her. But this?” Her fingers clenched around the rim of the bowl, “This is somethin’ else.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed, “She said she wanted peace. Said she was runnin’ from somethin’, yeah. But this don’t sound like runnin’—this sounds like coverin’ up a body.”

Annie didn’t respond. Her eyes remained locked on the rot jar, the name still floating like a ghost on the surface.

Nathaniel.

The ink began to curl again, dissolving back into the syrup-thick honey, like it had only come up for air.

“I thought I knew her,” Annie whispered, “I let her in my bed. My bones. My blood. And all this time…”

She shook her head.

“She’s powerful,” Annie said, “Too powerful to be hidin’ in plain sight like this.”

Smoke exhaled hard through his nose.

“She fucked Stack,” he muttered, “And me. You.” He looked over at Annie, eyes rimmed with something soft, like hurt, “You brought her into our home.”

Annie’s shoulders caved. Her voice was low.

“I loved her.”

Smoke didn’t say anything. Annie stared into the flame.

“She gave me warmth when I was lonely. Fed me touch when I hadn’t been touched in years. Looked at me like I was honey and not just bone.” Her eyes shone, “But she never told me who she really was.”

The pain landed slow, creeping through her limbs like cold.

“I don’t think she meant harm,” Annie whispered, “But she did bring it.”

Smoke stood. He crossed to the window, eyes scanning the dark woods beyond. His voice was quiet when he asked, “So what do we do?”

Annie rose to her feet, “We confront her.”

He turned, “She gonna lie.”

“She might,” Annie said, “But I’ll know now.”

They stared at each other. Smoke glanced back at the jars one last time, “You really think she killed someone?”

Annie’s voice was barely a breath.

“I think someone died because of her.”

And with that, the flame bent in the direction of the door—like the room itself had heard the truth, and was pointing the way.

They trailed him down Sunflower Avenue as the sky darkened to ash.

Clarksdale was winding into evening—shop signs flickering, doors shutting, and that deep hum of the Delta curling back into itself like a dog at the end of day. But Stack wasn’t easing down. He drove slow, following the man two cars behind, head angled just slightly to the left as he kept his eye on the cream-colored brim of a Panama hat bobbing down the sidewalk.

The Creole man was slick.

He had a light-footed strut, damn near elegant, and the kind of face that could melt into a crowd—light skin, sharp nose, gold tooth glintin’ when he smiled too long. Dressed to blend, like most informants did. But Stack had the drop on him now. And he wasn’t gonna lose it. Amelia sat in the passenger seat beside him, hands wrung in her lap. Stack cut the headlights and pulled the car into a side lot just off Issaquena. They watched the Creole man disappear around a corner near the old music shop.

“Stay close,” Stack said low, opening his door.

Amelia followed. The gravel shifted under her shoes.

They trailed him down the alley behind the boarded-up bakery. Evening light pooled through broken fences and rusted tin, throwing long shadows over the brick. Stack moved quiet for a man his size, and Amelia kept just behind him, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. They caught sight of the man again—ducking into the back of an old rooming house. Stack didn’t hesitate. He strode forward, fast.

Amelia hissed, “Wait—”

But it was too late.

Stack grabbed the Creole man by the collar just as he opened the door and slammed him against the brick wall.

“Start talkin’,” Stack growled.

The man gasped, heels scraping against the dirt, hands up. “Hey! What the hell—!”

“You heard me.” Stack pressed a forearm into his chest, “You been tailin’ my girl. Passin’ off photographs like you workin’ for the damn Pinkertons. What the fuck you want with her?”

“I don’t—I don’t want nothin’,” the man said quickly, voice like cane syrup, “I was just paid to gather some information—”

Stack’s voice dropped, “By who?”

Silence.

Stack slammed him harder, “I said—by who?”

The man grimaced, “Fine! Celine. Her name’s Celine DuPont. Hired me outta Memphis. Said she was lookin’ for her niece.”

Amelia flinched.

Stack’s hand curled tighter into the man’s collar, “She say why?”

“Said the girl ran off,” he wheezed, “Said she was dangerous. That she mighta done somethin’. Told me to follow her. Take pictures. Report back.” He hesitated, “She said she wanted to bring her home.”

Amelia’s breath caught. Her skin prickled.

Stack shoved him back once more for good measure, then released his grip. The man stumbled, panting.

“Lemme see the photos,” Stack ordered.

The man opened his coat and pulled a thin leather folio from inside. He passed it over.

Stack opened it.

Black-and-white snapshots. Amelia at the general store. Amelia on Annie’s porch. Amelia walkin’ back from the creek, barefoot and lit from the back by the sun.

Stack’s eyes blazed.

“She been trackin’ her this whole time,” he said low, “Even before she came knockin’.”

He snapped the folio shut.

“Gather up everythin’ you got on her,” Stack ordered, “Now.”

The man didn’t argue. He ducked into his little room behind the boarding house and emerged moments later with a satchel. Folded papers, photo negatives, some kind of shortwave transmitter. Stack ripped the wires out of it before stuffing it all into the bag.

“You’re done workin’ for Celine,” Stack said coldly, stepping closer again.

The man nodded, sweating, “I got it. Loud and clear.”

But Stack wasn’t finished.

He leaned in, voice low and deadly, “You disappear. You vanish. And if I even smell you trailin’ her again? If I hear you passed her name to anybody—anybody—I’ma find you.”

The man blinked, heart hammering.

Stack narrowed his eyes, “And I ain’t just got eyes and ears in Clarksdale,” he whispered, “The Delta talk. And I listen. You heard of the Smoke-Stack twins? think twice, Cher ami.”

The man swallowed hard, “Understood.”

“Good.” Stack turned, “Come on, baby.”

Amelia moved silently beside him, still shaken. As they walked away, Stack didn’t look back.But the air behind them smelled like fear.

And something else.

Like the sharp crackle of secrets about to burn.

They rode in silence. The car rumbled over red clay and gravel, spitting dust in their wake like they were outrunnin’ the devil himself. Stack’s jaw stayed clenched, one hand gripped tight on the wheel, the other still itchin’ from how close he’d come to crackin’ that Creole man’s ribs clean through. Amelia sat stiff beside him, the satchel of photographs in her lap—a fresh wound bleeding between them.

The proof of Celine’s reach was right there in her hands. Folded snapshots of Amelia walkin’ to market. Bent corners from where they’d been hidden too long in some coat pocket. A photo of her sittin’ under a pecan tree, eyes half-closed, skirt caught in the breeze like she ain’t had a care in the world. She was being hunted. Documented. Watched in the same way you watch somethin’ you plan to trap. Stack pulled off the road near a low bluff, killed the engine. The sudden quiet pressed in hard.

Amelia didn’t speak right away. She stared out the window, her reflection faint in the glass—too faint for comfort, “She always liked pretty things she could control,” she said softly, “But I ain’t her daughter. I never was.”

Stack exhaled rough, then turned toward her, “You still think she’d really do it?”

Amelia met his eyes, “She already is.” She held up one of the photographs—one with her entering Annie’s hoodoo shack, “She hired someone to watch me. Paid him to find me. That’s worse than death. That’s…punishment. That’s humiliation. That’s her sayin’, ‘I see you. You still mine.’”

Stack reached over, took the photo from her hand and shoved it back in the bag. He didn’t want to look at no more ghosts, “I don’t like bein’ played,” he muttered, “And I damn sure don’t like someone thinkin’ they gon’ steal you out from under me.”

That made her glance at him—sharper now.

“You sound like I belong to you.”

He met her gaze head-on, “You do.”

Amelia’s throat bobbed, “But you don’t even know what I am,” she whispered.

“I know enough. I know what I see.”

She blinked, “What do you see?”

Stack leaned in, his voice low and gritty like gravel draggin’ across velvet, “I see how you got me dreamin’ things I ain’t never dreamed. I see how your scent still in my goddamn sheets days after you gone. I see how I been wantin’ to bite you every time you pass too close. You got some power buried in that pretty skin. And it ain’t just magic. It’s you.”

Her lips parted.

“Smoke said you was dangerous,” he added, voice going harder now, “Said you wasn’t right. Said you was hidin’.”

She flinched. Just a little. But Stack noticed.

“I told him I ain’t care.”

He leaned back again, eyes scanning the horizon like he was calculating the shape of whatever storm was comin’, “But now I see it too. You got somethin’ in you. Wild. Like light tryin’ to break out. But it’s twisted up with shadows. And that shit’s callin’ to me like it know my name.”

A long silence settled between them.

Then Amelia spoke, quiet as dusk, “So now what?”

Stack turned to her. His eyes weren’t angry anymore. They were somethin’ else—claimed, “Now I keep you safe. Even from her.”

She stared at him, “You sure?”

“I already burned the trail behind us, baby.” He reached over, his hand closing gently around hers. She didn’t pull away, “Only way through now is forward.”

The car rocked gently as it sped down a dirt road veined with sunset and cotton shadows. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the Delta air—heavy with honeysuckle, dust, and the scent of something about to break. Amelia sat curled tight against the passenger door, arms folded, head turned away from him. She hadn’t spoken in miles. Not since they left the Creole man with his tail tucked and secrets spilled. Stack glanced over, his fingers tightening on the wheel.

“You alright?”

No answer. Just the wind lifting her curls and a haunted sort of stillness.

“Amelia.”

She flinched like her name was a blade. Turned slowly, eyes rimmed red and too wide, “You say you wanna keep me,” she spoke softly, “But you don’t know what you sayin’.”

That hit him harder than he expected. Stack didn’t answer right away. He just reached out and laid a hand on her thigh, the way he always did to ground her—but this time, she didn’t move toward it.

“You already told me what happened,” he said low, “That man. The bayou. You told me.”

“I told you one thing,” she whispered, “But I ain’t told you everything. You don’t know what I’m carryin’. What I am.”

Stack’s jaw ticked. Without a word, he pulled off onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. He killed the engine and turned to face her, “Then tell me. Or don’t. Either way…” he leaned closer, his voice rasping out rough and low, “I still want you.”

Amelia shook her head, “That’s ‘cause you don’t see me yet. You see what you wanna see. Somethin’ soft. Somethin’ you can touch. But you ain’t looked deep enough to see what’s starin’ back.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She looked down at her lap, hands clasped so tight her knuckles ached, “I feel like rot, Stack. I came here sweet but spoiled. I brought a storm with me and I don’t know how to stop it. It’s already eatin’ through everything I touch.”

“That why you keep shrinkin’ away from me?” he asked, “You think I can’t take it?”

“I think I’ll ruin you.”

He was quiet. So quiet she almost regretted saying it. Then—

“Storm or not,” he said, leaning in, voice tight, “I’m stayin’ in it.”

Amelia blinked up at him. His face was backlit by a sliver of moonlight. She could see the veins in his neck, the clenched set of his jaw, the heat in his eyes.

“Whatever’s inside you, whatever it is,” he murmured, “don’t scare me. Not like losin’ you would.”

Amelia tried to swallow it down, the ache caught in her throat, but it was no use. Her lips trembled. Her breath hitched. And then the tears came—hot, silent, unforgiving. She pressed her fingers to her mouth like she could stop them, but her whole body shook with the weight of letting go.

Stack didn’t move at first. He just sat there in the quiet of that car, watching the girl he couldn’t shake come undone beside him. The moon slid behind a cloud, and for a second she looked like a mist over a meadow—soft and dissolving, too wild to hold. But he reached for her anyway.

“Hey,” he whispered, thumb grazing the side of her face, “Look at me.”

She did. Barely.

“I’m right here.”

That broke something loose. She let out a soft, helpless sound—half a sob, half a gasp—and turned toward him, crawling across the worn bench seat. Stack opened his arms just as she folded herself into him, her thighs straddling his lap, her tears dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean for none of it to happen,” she whispered against his throat, “I didn’t know what I was. I still don’t really understand. But whatever I am…it ruins things.”

“Nah,” he whispered, cupping the back of her head, his other hand splayed across the small of her back, “You don’t ruin shit. You reveal it.”

Amelia blinked, her tear-bright eyes locking with his. Something in her chest flipped. Opened.

She kissed him. Soft at first—uncertain, trembling—but when his mouth met hers with heat and hunger, she opened wider. Welcomed him in. Their kiss turned greedy, wet, full of tongue and ache. It was the kind of kiss that took its time tasting sorrow and burned it away with want. Her hands slid up his shoulders, fingers curling into his hair. She rocked forward in his lap, the fabric of his slacks rough against the soaked cotton between her thighs. He groaned into her mouth.

“Mmm, fuck,” he muttered against her lips, his hands gripping her hips, holding her firm against his rising length, “You sittin’ right on what you done stirred up, baby.”

“You sure you want me?” she whispered, breathless, still unsure, still trembling.

Stack didn’t hesitate. He pulled her head back just enough to look her dead in the eye.

“I don’t give a fuck who had a taste of them sugar walls before me,” he said, his voice low and guttural, “Don’t care if Smoke touched you. Don’t care if Annie touched you. Don’t care what you did with that preacher man. Or what he did to you. That was then.” His hand came up, fingers cradling her jaw, “This right here? This now? You mine.”

Amelia’s breath caught, “Say it again,” she whispered.

“You. Mine.”

He kissed her hard then—rough and possessive, like he was sealing it with his mouth. She melted into him, hips grinding slow and desperate in his lap.

“I wanna be,” she whispered, broken and warm and open, “I wanna be yours.”

“Then you are.”

His hands slid up under her blouse, palms hot against the softness of her back. She gasped when his thumbs grazed the underside of her breasts. Her nipples stiffened through the fabric, brushing his chest as they rocked together, caught between confession and fire.

“You think I care about power?” he rasped against her ear, “What you got buried under that skin? That magic? That light? Girl, that mine now, too.”

Her lips parted. Her back arched.

“Stack—”

“Ain’t no runnin’ now,” he growled, licking into her mouth again, “I don’t want the soft version. I want the whole fuckin’ storm.”

The windows fogged. Not from the weather, but from the heat curling off their bodies like breath in a glass jar. The bench seat creaked beneath them as Amelia pressed her forehead to his again, breath uneven, chest rising and falling against his. She was straddling him still, skirt bunched up around her hips, her thighs trembling from all that unshed feeling now pouring out of her in gasps and kisses and whimpers. Stack slid his hands down her spine—slow, certain—until his fingers found the backs of her thighs. He dragged them upward, thumbs curling to trace the softness there, just beneath the crease where her heat pulsed.

Then lower. And lower still. His fingertips brushed the inside of her thigh, dragging up the damp seam of her cotton panties.

She shivered.

“Stack—” she breathed, but her voice broke.

“Shhh, I got you,” he spoke low, mouth grazing her cheek, her jaw, then her neck, “Just let me feel it. Just a taste.”

His fingers slipped beneath the elastic and slid her panties to the side, slow. He groaned deep when he felt it—her bare, dripping heat pressed against the heel of his hand.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger, “So wet f’me…”

Amelia arched in his lap, hips jerking at the contact, her eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t slide in. Not yet. He just rubbed her—palm broad, fingers precise—slow, maddening circles over her slippery lips. Up to her clit. Down again to tease her opening. Just enough to keep her right at the edge. He kissed her shoulder while he worked her. Soft, slow kisses that burned. Then up the column of her throat. Her jaw. Her lips. Until he was kissing her again—wet, open-mouthed, messy. Like he wanted to drink her in.

“Mine,” he whispered against her lips. His fingers pressed deeper, “Mine,” he whispered again, kissing her harder.

She whimpered, thighs twitching. Her arms locked around his neck.

“Stack—please…”

He kissed the tears from her cheeks, his other hand cradling the back of her head, “You feel that?” he breathed, rubbing her clit with aching, possessive rhythm, “That heartbeat between your legs? That’s beatin’ for me now, girl. You hear me?”

“Yes,” she gasped, “Yes—yes.”

He bit her bottom lip, gently. Sucked it. Let it go with a wet pop, “You belong to me now,” he said, “Ain’t no past. Ain’t no preacher. Ain’t no Annie. Ain’t no Smoke. Just you…and me…and this fuckin’ heat.”

She moaned, rocking against him, fingers gripping his shirt so tight the seams cried out.

“Say it,” he whispered against her ear, “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” she sobbed, “I belong to you.”

He stilled his hand just long enough to growl—

“Good.”

Then he rubbed her faster, deeper, until her breath caught, her body trembled, her thighs clamped around his wrist like she was trying to trap the sensation there forever.

“Go on,” he coaxed, “Make a mess in my hand, sugar. Mark me up with it. Go on and claim me back.”

Her release came in a shudder. Silent at first—then a soft cry ripped free from her lips as her body trembled and collapsed against his chest.

He held her.

One arm wrapped strong around her back.

The other still cupped between her thighs, fingers sticky with all the sweetness he’d drawn out of her like a conjure. When she finally lifted her head, dazed and glowing, he kissed her temple. Then her lips again. Slow this time. Sweet.

“Don’t need to know what you are,” he whispered, “But I know what you do to me.”

She didn’t answer right away.

But her smile—shy, tearful, glowing—told him that maybe for the first time in a long while…

She believed someone might stay.

The rain started soft—just a whisper against the windshield like a breath caught in the throat. A few drops, then more. It was dusk now, and the sky above Clarksdale was draped in violet clouds, the kind that carried weight. The kind that loomed before a confession.

Stack hadn’t restarted the engine.

They sat in his car on a narrow backroad, the kind only people who had something to hide used. Cypress trees stretched like long arms overhead, their moss-draped limbs swaying slightly in the breeze. Amelia sat sideways in his lap, straddling him in the driver’s seat, the hush between them thick as syrup. Her dress was hitched high on her thighs, her bare legs warm around his waist, but neither of them moved now. Not after what he said. Not after what she felt bubbling in her chest, burning in her ribs, begging to be freed.

She watched him.

His hands were still on her—one cupping the round of her ass, the other pressed low, rubbing over her softness like he was learning her from the outside in. Slow. His voice still echoed between her thighs.

“Mine.”

Again and again. Like he meant to bind her.

And maybe he did.

Her lip trembled, “You sayin’ that like you know what you claimin’.”

Stack leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, “I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice broke, small and sharp. She shook her head and tried to pull back, but he held her steady.

“I know enough. Know I feel different ‘round you. You got me wantin’ to protect you from folks I don’t even understand yet. Hell, you got me swearin’ I’d kill somebody if they so much as looked at you wrong.”

She laughed, but it cracked on the way out—shattered, “That ain’t love. That’s madness.”

“Maybe I want a little madness.”

Her hands trembled where they held his shoulders. Her fingers curled into his shirt, “What happens when the madness turn real? When I show you what I really am and you can’t look at me the same?”

“Try me.”

She looked at him then. Fully. Her brown eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Her lips parted, “Stack…”

“I’m right here, baby.”

She closed her eyes.

The first flash of it was soft. Like a firefly had landed on her fingertips.

Then it grew.

A warm, golden glow bled through her skin—tender at first, then radiant. Her hands lit up where they rested on his chest, like honey mixed with sunlight, like the kind of magic that couldn’t be faked. It poured from her slowly, ethereal, as if her pulse carried stardust.

The rain fell harder.

The cab of the truck flickered in that glow, amber light dancing across the planes of Stack’s face. His breath caught, sharp and low in his chest.

Amelia opened her eyes.

They glowed too—soft, bronze-gold and lit from within, like a hearth fire hidden deep behind a doe-eyed gaze. She watched him, terrified. Her whole body hummed with energy she could no longer hide, and in that moment, she looked like something ancient and untamed. Something made of swamp light and forgotten prayers.

“I ain’t human, Elias,” she whispered, using his name for the first time.

Stack stared, wide-eyed. Silent.

“My mama wasn’t from here,” she continued, voice trembling, “Not from this side, not from this world. She loved my daddy but she couldn’t stay. Left me on my grandmama’s porch wrapped in silk. Vivienne took me in. She kept me close and safe. Hid the truth till I was old enough to bear it.” She swallowed hard, “I always knew I was different. I could feel things. People felt things around me. Want, ache, pull. Sometimes I’d light up without meanin’ to. Vivienne said we was a kind of fae. Said the name—‘feu follet.’ A light that lures. A fire that flickers but don’t burn out. She said we came from deep bayous and old stories…from places where the dead still hum and the trees remember.”

Stack was still silent.

The rain thickened, tracing their silhouettes in the cab, but all he could see was her. Glowing. Scared. Real.

“I didn’t know how to name it till I went back. After it all. I found my grandmama’s letters, her jars, her stories…and it clicked. I ain’t a witch. I ain’t just a girl who runs hot and leaves ruin. I’m something else. Something that shouldn’t be here.” She lifted one hand between them, palm open, light swirling, “And now you know.”

For a long moment, nothing moved. Not the air. Not the truck. Not her. Just the storm pounding overhead, and the golden light illuminating everything between them.

Then Stack spoke, low and hoarse, “Goddamn, baby.”

She bit her lip, voice shaking, “You scared of me now?”

Stack cupped her face with both hands, “Terrified.”

She started to turn away, but he wouldn’t let her.

“But I still wanna keep you.”

Her breath stilled.

His hands cradled her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheeks, “I don’t care what you are. I don’t care what you glow like. I don’t care who touched you before. I want you. All of you. You hear me?”

Tears spilled over her lashes.

He kissed them from her cheeks, “You ain’t cursed, Amelia. You just powerful.”

She choked on a sob and folded into him, her glowing hands clinging to his shoulders like anchors. He held her. Rocked her. Let the light burn between them while the rain painted the windows with streaks of water. And when the glow faded—just slightly—and her tears eased, Stack pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Whatever storm you carry…I’ll stand in it.”

Amelia closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she believed him. The rain beat harder now. It streamed over the truck’s roof in silver veins, blurring the windows and softening the outside world until there was nothing left but the heat of breath and the sound of two hearts pounding close.

Stack didn’t move right away.

He sat there, staring at her like she wasn’t real—but also like she was the only thing in the world that was. His hands were still cradling her glowing face, callused thumbs brushing the trails her tears had carved. Her skin was still warm with the soft shimmer of her power, dulled now, but alive, like dying embers still curling with light beneath the surface. And she was looking at him like she couldn’t believe he stayed.

Her bottom lip trembled.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss didn’t start soft.

It was hungry. Desperate. His mouth captured hers with a groan low in his throat, his lips parting hers as if he needed her—right there, right now, rain be damned. All tongue and heat and ache. His hands slid from her face to her jaw, then down, rough and sure, gripping her thighs, squeezing the flesh of them as if to ground himself in something solid. Amelia gasped into his mouth, but didn’t pull back.

She kissed him harder.

Climbed deeper into his lap like she was trying to crawl inside his chest and stay there. Her fingers found the back of his neck, clutching tight, the tips of them still warm from her glow. He moaned into her mouth and tilted his head, deepening the kiss until it became something more than just a kiss. It was a claiming. A vow. His tongue slid against hers, messy and hot, his breath hitching when her hips rocked against him, the friction slow but devastating. He cursed against her lips, one hand sliding beneath her ass to guide her closer, deeper. She was wet already—soaked from the heat, the confession, the release.

“You feel that?” he growled against her mouth, lips brushing hers as he spoke, “That right there? That’s mine. You mine, Amelia. Don’t care what magic run in you. Don’t care what you done. I want you.”

“Stack—” she breathed, but he kissed her again, cutting her off.

His other hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair as he tilted her face up and kissed her so deep, so possessive, she whined against him—soft and helpless. It made him groan again, the sound reverberating from his chest straight into her core.

“I ain’t lettin’ nobody take you from me,” he said, trailing kisses along her jaw, down to the corner of her mouth, then lower to her throat, “You hear me? Not your aunt. Not even that power in your skin.”

She clung to him.

Eyes shining. Chest heaving. Every soft part of her pressed to every hard part of him, and he could feel it—that charge between them. Like her power had crawled under his skin and claimed him right back.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” she whispered.

He kissed her neck, “You told me now.”

“I was scared.”

“You still scared?”

She nodded.

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze dark and unwavering, “Good,” he said, “Means you got somethin’ to lose. But you ain’t gonna lose me.”

She made a sound between a sob and a laugh and kissed him again. This time softer. Slower. Her lips trembling but sure. A kiss that said thank you. A kiss that said I see you. A kiss that said stay.

Stack deepened it anyway.

Made her feel it in her stomach. In her thighs. In her chest. Until the whole truck fogged with heat and breath and the kind of hunger that didn’t end with touching skin—it ended with a soul handing itself over.

The cab was hot with breath and wet with sweat, the windows long gone to fog and shadows. The storm outside only made it worse—more secret, more sacred. The kind of heat that made it feel like the rest of the world was melting away. Amelia didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. Her lips were kiss-bitten and her chest was rising fast, nipples stiff beneath the damp fabric of her dress. The dress had ridden up somewhere around her thighs, and Stack still had one hand beneath it—gripping, squeezing, coaxing. He didn’t breathe right when she reached down. Her fingers worked at his belt in frantic jerks, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She undid the clasp, popped the button, and slid the zipper down with one sharp hiss of metal.

Then she reached in.

Her fingers brushed against hot, thick skin—already leaking, already twitching—and pulled him out like she couldn’t take it anymore.

Like she’d been waiting for this all her life.

Stack groaned through gritted teeth, his head thunking lightly back against the seat. His hips bucked, desperate, and she gripped him with both hands now, marveling for just a breath at how heavy he felt, how veiny, how ready. Long and fat and gorgeous.

“Shit…” he exhaled, chest heaving, fists clenched hard against the seat as her fist stroked him once, twice—then let him go so she could climb. She hiked her dress higher, exposing the sweet mess between her thighs. No panties. Just slick skin and trembling want. And then—without a word—she gripped his shoulders and lowered herself onto him.

All the way down.

Tip to base.

A long, nasty, wet descent.

Stack’s mouth fell open. He cursed, low and hoarse, his hands flying back to her hips like instinct, “Fuuuck—Amelia…”

But she didn’t stop.

She was already riding.

One hand flat against the ceiling of the truck, the other gripping the seat beside his thigh for leverage, her legs wide, her body bouncing, the wet plop-plop-plop of her dripping cunt echoing in rhythm with her need.

She took all of him.

Every time.

Grinding on the base, ass slapping against his thighs with each downward push, her movements feral—gritty—like she was trying to work the grief, the guilt, the confession out of her pussy. Like she needed his dick to survive.

And Stack—Stack was falling apart beneath her.

“Look at me,” he rasped, hands sliding up her waist, thumbs digging into her soft hips, “Look at me when you fuck me like that.”

She tried.

God, she tried.

But her eyes kept rolling back, lips parting in silent gasps, hair sticking to her face, her glow threatening to rise again beneath her skin. Her thighs shook as she bounced harder—plap-plap-plap—each collision wetter than the last.

Stack watched her like a dying man.

Head tilted back, sweat sliding down his throat, a vein bulging in his temple. His hands were everywhere—guiding her bounce, squeezing her ass, gripping her waist so tight she’d bruise from it.

“Doin’ me like that,” he moaned, nearly stunned, “You tryna ruin me, baby? You tryna take me out like this?”

Amelia whimpered, breath broken, riding harder.

“Shiiit,” he breathed again, voice wrecked, “Ain’t never felt pussy ride like that. Ain’t never had nothin’ this fuckin’ wet.”

He looked down between them, mesmerized by the way her pretty pussy stretched around him, swallowed him, gleamed with wetness, dripped down his shaft each time she lifted up.

Then came back down with that filthy slap.

Plap.

Plap.

Plap.

It echoed through the cab like a beat from the devil’s choir.

And Amelia—glowing, wild, soaked in sweat and tears and rain—rode him like he was the only altar she’d ever kneel to. Her eyes fluttered shut, her stomach tensed, her moans slipping out with each bounce, each shift, each delicious drag of his cock hitting every swollen, needy part inside her.

“Don’t stop,” he grunted, sitting up now, arms locked around her back, pulling her chest to his, “Don’t fuckin’ stop, baby, please. You feel so good—so fuckin’ good…”

Their mouths met again—teeth clashing, tongues tangled, both of them trembling, soaked in the storm of it.

The car shook.

Her body trembled.

And when she started to come—when her pussy clamped down in fluttering, helpless spasms around him—Stack held her tighter and let go, growling her name against her throat like a curse and a prayer in one.

He filled her.

Deep.

Hot.

So much she gasped from it.

Still grinding.

Still twitching.

Still clinging to him like her whole soul depended on it.

And maybe it did.

Because even after the storm outside began to quiet, the one between them only burned hotter. And neither of them wanted to let go.

The slap of their bodies echoed through the steamed-up cab.

Plap. Plap. Plap.

Sticky. Relentless. Wet as the storm outside.

Amelia was still riding.

Harder now.

Stack’s hands gripped her thighs, his jaw clenched tight as he thrust up into her, meeting each bounce with a snap of his hips so deep it lifted her. Their rhythm clashed, wild and brutal and greedy, until it wasn’t clear who was fucking who.

She cried out—a high, helpless sound—and grabbed at his shoulders for balance.

“Stack,” she whimpered, voice thin, breathless, needy.

He looked up at her, chest heaving.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stared like he couldn’t believe it. Like her riding him like this made no goddamn sense. The way her pussy gripped him, milked him, made obscene music every time she dropped back down—wet, creamy, suction-slick.

She was drenched. Both of them were.

The storm beat harder against the roof, but all Stack could hear was the squelch of her heat around him, the moans slipping out of her mouth, the quick gasps she made every time his cock dragged deep against her walls.

“Fuck,” he growled. “This pussy—this fuckin’ pussy—”

Without warning, he reached to the side and yanked the seat lever—it gave with a squeak, the seat sliding back and reclining slightly. Not much, but enough.

Enough to tilt her forward.

To make her hands slap against the seat just above his shoulders, planting firm beside his head.

And Amelia bounced.

For real now.

Her ass clapped against his thighs, loud and wild, her tits nearly spilling from her dress as the straps slipped down her arms. Her hair clung to her glowing skin, her back arched like a woman possessed.

She was feeding on him.

Desperate. Electric. Glowing from the inside out.

“Every time you fuck me,” she gasped, voice breaking like thunder over the rain, “my light smile…”

Stack’s brow furrowed beneath her, eyes locked on her face.

“My light,” she moaned again, hips jerking, her body trembling with pleasure so rich it was almost pain, “It smiles when you touch me. I feel it all over—all over, Stack.”

His mouth dropped open, panting.

Breath failing.

Pulse out of control.

The way she was moving—riding like she was born to do it, like she was gonna fuck him until her soul crawled out—was doing something dangerous to him.

And then she said it.

Filthy. Sweet. Slurred with lust.

“Your dick feel so good, baby. So good I can’t stop—I don’t wanna get off. I wanna stay right here. Wanna fuck you forever…”

Her voice cracked at the edges. She was whining now, grinding, her thighs trembling from the overstimulation. Her glow flickered beneath her skin, little shimmers lighting up along her collarbones and shoulders like fireflies had taken root in her.

She was so deep in it, so far gone, that even the air tasted like her now. Sex and power and fae sweetness mixing with the heavy scent of sweat and rain.

“Baby,” she moaned, eyes squeezed shut, “you fuckin’ me so good…so deep…”

“I can’t fuckin’—” Stack tried, voice barely there.

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t see straight.

Couldn’t do anything but thrust up into her with everything he had left. His hands slid to her waist, then lower, gripping the flare of her ass so he could keep slamming into her, the wet claps growing louder, faster, filthier.

He was drenched in her.

His thighs slick with her cream.

Her pussy so swollen and needy it was sucking him in, over and over, greedy for every inch.

“Keep goin’,” she begged, head thrown back, “Keep fuckin’ me just like that…”

Her glow was brighter now.

Flickering gold.

Lighting the whole cab in a low, eerie sheen—like candlelight licked the corners of the truck. Magic curled from her skin like smoke. Stack swore he could taste it on his tongue.

“I’m gon’ lose it,” he warned, voice thick with pressure, eyes dark, “I swear to God, I’m gon’ bust so deep in this pussy—you gon’ feel it in your fuckin’ throat.”

Amelia whimpered.

Then screamed.

And kept riding.

Kept feeding on him like his dick was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Amelia was still bouncing—wild, slick, glowing—when Stack’s arms locked around her like a vice.

“Oh fuck—”

She barely had time to cry out before it happened.

That thick, strong bicep cinched around her waist, one hand hooking under her thigh, and with a growl from deep in his throat, Stack flipped her.

Her body hit the seat in a rush of air and heat, legs splayed, her back landing in the puddle of body warmth they’d made. The leather stuck to her skin, and the smell of sweat, sex, and him clung to everything.

She was breathless—spun, stunned, her dress bunched around her hips, her thighs wet and trembling. Stack hovered over her, panting, his chest rising like a man about to do damage.

Then—rrrriip.

He yanked his shirt open, buttons flying, some popping onto the seat, one hitting the floor with a faint clink.

Muscle. Heat. All man.

His chest glistened, the ridges of him carved from the kind of strength that came from work and war and wanting. Tattoos inked across his shoulders. Sweat dripping from his neck.

“Thought you was gon’ ride me into death,” he muttered, voice low and guttural, “Now I got somethin’ for you.”

He didn’t give her time to respond.

He dragged her back.

Shimmying between the narrow space, he lifted her with one arm, kicked the door open just enough for leverage, and maneuvered them to the back seat. It was cramped, but Stack didn’t give a damn. He was wide. Tall. Made for war. But he made it work like he’d been planning this his whole life.

And then he threw her down.

Her back hit the bench seat, legs falling open like petals in bloom.

And Stack climbed over her.

“Keep ‘em open,” he ordered, voice hoarse, “You hear me?”

Amelia could only nod.

Her glow shimmered faintly in the rain-soaked dark, her pussy swollen, spread, dripping for him. Lips puffy, glistening. The scent of her had soaked into his skin.

Then he slammed into her.

Deep.

Hard.

Her breath caught, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent cry.

“Oh—fuck—” she choked out, fingers clutching at the leather beneath her as her thighs shook from the force of it.

But he wasn’t done.

Stack gripped her legs—one hand hooked beneath her left knee, the other pressing her right thigh back until she was wide open and helpless, bared to the root.

And he fucked.

No mercy. No rhythm. Just pounding.

The truck shook.

Rocked on its tires with each brutal thrust.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her ass smacked the leather with every stroke, her tits bouncing wildly beneath the fallen straps of her dress, her throat working to swallow the moans that spilled out.

She couldn’t stop them.

Didn’t want to.

“Bangin’ my coochie out,” she gasped, barely breathing, “Stack—oh my God—don’t stop—”

“I ain’t,” he growled, sweat dripping from his jaw onto her chest. “You gone take this dick.”

He slammed into her again, deeper, rougher—his hips snapping forward, balls slapping wet against her ass, the sound obscene.

“Made for me,” he hissed, watching her face twist up with every stroke. “This pussy made to be fucked like this. Look at you. Glowin’. Creamin’. Drippin’ down my balls like you was born to fuck me.”

“Shit—Stack—please—”

“You beggin’?”He smirked, not slowing. Not at all, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby. Not till I empty everything in you. Not till I fuck you so hard you forget how to walk.”

He leaned in.

Fucked harder.

The windows were drenched.

The seats were soaked.

And Stack was out of his mind—his abs flexing, thighs tight, hips slamming down like judgment day, like the world was ending and he needed to finish inside her before the light went out.

“Take it,” he growled, “Take this fuckin’ dick.”

The truck shook like thunder lived inside it. Rain screamed down the windows, trailing in frantic rivers—but inside, the storm was between them.

And Stack was deep.

So deep.

He fucked her like he was lost in it.

His hips were grinding, slamming, dragging through her like he was pulling her soul out through her cunt—slow when he wanted her to feel every inch, hard when he wanted to hear her cry. Not just stroke after stroke—stroke with purpose. Deep pulls that left her aching, toes curling, jaw slack.

And Amelia? She was gone.Moaning like a girl undone, the wet squelch of her pussy louder now, filthier, obscene.

“Oh my God, Stack—fuck me—please—”

Her hands clawed at his back, nails raking down the sweat-slick muscle. She was arching into him, thighs spread wide, dress shoved up to her waist, tits out, glowing like something unholy.

And then it hit.

That fae spark.

It flared up inside her, lit beneath her skin like wildfire. It wasn’t just sex anymore—it was energy, pulsing between her legs, seeping into the base of his cock, dancing up his spine like sparks crawling on nerve endings.

Stack gasped—mid-stroke—his body seizing with a shock he couldn’t name.

“What the fuck—?” he growled, hips stuttering for just a second.

She was glowing.

Inside.

Her pussy felt like satin and silk and sugar heat all at once—wet and hot and slick, but humming. Like it was feeding him. Stroking him with more than muscle.

Like her walls knew him.

Sucked him back in each time he pulled out, holding him tight, milking every inch.

“I—I don’t know what it’s doin’ to you,” Amelia gasped, eyes wide, chest rising, mouth trembling. “But I—I can’t stop—”

Stack’s teeth gritted. He couldn’t either. His body was locked, lungs barely catching air.

“F–f–ffuck me,” she cried, legs trembling. “Daddy. Please—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

That word.

That filthy, broken Daddy falling out of her sweet little mouth?

Stack snapped.

He drove into her with a groan so raw it cracked in the center, his face burying into her neck as he shoved her deeper into the seat.

Rocking her. Breaking her. Owning her.

Her glow burst bright beneath him.

And he didn’t care.

“Say it again,” he growled, lips hot against her ear.

“Daddy—”

Harder.

Deeper.

Her pussy clenched around him like velvet fire, pulling every thrust deeper into her center. Her whole body shook, lit from within, skin sparkling faint gold. Her voice cracked, caught between pleasure and tears.

“You feel that?” he grunted, one arm sliding under her lower back to anchor her in place. “That’s what daddy do to you.”

She sobbed out a sound so desperate it didn’t even have words.

Then he kissed her.

Messy. Wet. Devouring.

Their mouths collided like hunger made flesh, like starvation. His tongue forced past her lips, claiming her, fucking her mouth while his cock fucked her body. She kissed back like her life depended on it—like she wanted to be eaten up from every angle.

Every stroke—

Dragging.

Pulling.

Thick and full, brushing her walls in just the right spot, the head nudging her core so good she saw stars.

Stack groaned into her mouth, “I feel it. That magic. That glow. It’s in me now, girl. You done fucked me into it.”

She whined beneath him, eyes rolling, body squirming under the force of his thrusts.

“I need it,” she breathed. “Need you to fill me. Need it in my stomach, daddy—please—”

He grunted again, sweat dripping onto her chest, his abs tightening as he slammed into her again, deeper than deep, thighs flexing, fucking.

Fucking her like he was never gonna stop.

truck rocked like a storm lived inside it. Each slam of Stack’s hips made the frame groan, the leather squeal, the windows tremble in their seals. His chest was dripping sweat, falling on her glow-lit skin in hot beads that slid between her breasts, down her trembling stomach, pooling where their bodies met in slick, wet chaos.

And Stack was gone. Truly gone. Fucking like a man possessed.

Like a man claimed.

His thrusts had turned wild—raw—no longer timed, no longer methodical. He was chasing it now, chasing that edge like it held his salvation. Like her pussy had unlocked something in him no other woman ever could.

Amelia’s legs were shaking.

Her body was wrapped around him like it knew he was about to break.

“Daddy—please—please,” she cried, her voice barely a sound, “I can feel it—I can feel you—”

He snarled, low and brutal, “You gon’ take it.”

Her eyes rolled back.

Her glow exploded.

A shockwave of warmth bloomed from her center—inside where his cock kissed her womb—and rippled through his spine like fire. It wasn’t just fae magic anymore. It was her, pure and blazing, reaching into him and dragging his soul forward.

And that’s when it hit.

The nut.

It tore through Stack like a lightning strike.

“Fuuuuuuck—” he roared, muscles locking, hips driving forward in one final, soul-splitting thrust.

Thick. Endless. Vicious.

He nutted so hard it hurt.

Every pump forced hot, heavy rope after rope of cum so deep into her she swore she felt it behind her ribs. It filled her. Overflowed her. Marked her. Each release was dragged from his very core—gut-punched, mind-wrecked, face twisted in raw pleasure.

His entire body shuddered.

He was moaning. Groaning. Cursing. Chest heaving, jaw clenched, his thighs trembling from the magnitude of it.

“God—damn, girl—what the fuck did you do to me—”

Her cunt was still fluttering, gripping him like velvet vice, milking every last drop out of him. The slick schlup of it echoed in the cab with every little after-thrust as he instinctively kept pushing, not wanting to leave her, not wanting it to stop.

“Stack—” she whispered, voice shaking. “You filled me up. You filled me—full.”

And she meant it.

She could feel it in her belly. Heat and weight and magic curling in her womb like something alive. He’d poured everything into her. Not just cum. His breath. His soul. Stack collapsed over her, elbows on either side of her head, still buried deep, body twitching from the aftershocks.

They were both glowing now.

His skin glistened with sweat and her light, faint gold streaks like fireflies left fingerprints on him. His heart was racing in his throat. He couldn’t even speak. Amelia reached up and cupped his face with both trembling hands.

And kissed him. Soft. Messy. Full of everything.

Thank you.

I see you.

That was mine, too.

When they broke the kiss, Stack looked down at her with glassy eyes and a slack jaw, chest still heaving.

“I ain’t never,” he rasped, voice raw and barely there, “in my life…came like that.”

The rain softened against the roof. Gentler now. Slower. Like the sky was catching its breath. Amelia laid there on the back seat, thighs sticky, skin flushed, dress askew. Her lips were swollen from kisses, her chest still heaving, and her legs trembled faintly from the stretch of him still pulsing between her thighs. He was still above her. Breathing hard. Face damp with sweat and the glow she gave him. His dick twitched inside her once more before it softened, and he exhaled slow, like he’d finally given up the last of himself. He didn’t pull out yet. Didn’t speak. Just rested his forehead against hers, both of them slick and hot and trembling in the small, sweat-slicked space.

For a moment, she felt weightless.

Lit from within.

Her power had shimmered so brightly, it had wrapped around them both, made the air taste like sugar and copper, made the moment feel untouchable—like a secret held between gods. But then…her glow began to fade. Faint first. A soft dimming, like sunset slipping beneath the horizon. Then more. Faster. Until the light inside her vanished entirely, retreating back into the hidden places where she kept it locked up. And in its place came the familiar cold. That soft, curling ache. Stack kissed her cheek. And still, she didn’t speak. Because suddenly she was no longer light. No longer fae. No longer untouchable. She was just a girl. A girl who let a man see her.

Truly see her.

Not just her body, her sounds, her sweetness—but the thing she kept buried. That otherworldly part. The thing people feared. The thing her grandmother warned her to protect. She’d shown him. Glowed for him. Came for him like her magic had fused with his soul. And now it was quiet. So quiet. And that ache inside her—the one that always came after she gave too much—started whispering.

What if he’s only here for the shine? What if he saw it…and won’t stay? What if he’s scared now? What if you ruined it?

Her throat tightened.

The hand that had been gently stroking his back stilled. She hadn’t meant to let go like that. To burst with power. But it had been building, stirring beneath her skin since the moment she’d met him. Since the first night she’d looked at him too long, breathed him too deep. And now…now he’d had it. All of it.The light. The power. The mess of her. And she didn’t know what came next. She shifted slightly beneath him, trying to ease the burn between her thighs, trying not to wince as his softened cock slid from her, leaving her wet, aching, and empty in more ways than one. She turned her head, resting her cheek against the warm leather seat.

And whispered, “…Do you feel different now?”

Her voice was soft.

Afraid.

Stack blinked, still panting, still recovering from whatever explosion she’d just dragged him through. He looked down at her, confused. She didn’t meet his eyes. She was too scared he’d tell her the truth. That now that the magic was gone, maybe she wasn’t enough.

Stack didn’t answer. Not yet. He shifted above her—slow, heavy—his chest brushing hers, and her arms instinctively folded against her stomach. Not to push him away. But to cover herself. To hold something in. Her thighs pressed closed, even as the wetness between them seeped onto the leather beneath. She was still so full of him. But that fullness felt like a question now. Amelia turned her head further toward the car door, staring out at the rain-blurred window. Water streamed down it in rivulets—cool, silver-gray. And beyond that, the dark trees stood still. But now, after pouring it into him, after riding him until she cracked open and showed him everything—she felt smaller.

Exposed.

Like a secret someone else was holding now. The tips of her fingers curled against her arm. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses. Her hair stuck to her face. Her skin was cooling fast. But inside, where her light had burst and bloomed and burned, there was only quiet now. They took. And gave. They fed off sensation and poured it back twice as strong. They tasted love like a fruit that rotted if picked too early. And when they came—when they surrendered their glow—it meant something. She hadn’t meant to give it.

And now she couldn’t take it back.

Amelia’s eyes shimmered again—not with light, but with the first sting of tears. Not because she regretted it. Not because the sex wasn’t good. Not because she was ashamed. But because she’d wanted him to see her and stay. And now, in the lull between the storm and the silence, she didn’t know if he would. So she laid there. Still. Silent. Softening. And waited for the man above her to either reach for her heart…or walk away with the pieces she just gave him.

Did he feel different now?

Hell yes.

But not the way she meant.

Stack sat up just a little, still straddling her thighs, his hands braced on either side of her. He looked down at the slick between her legs, at the mess they’d made. At the faint shimmer still clinging to his skin. Her magic had marked him—he could feel it in his chest, in the back of his eyes, in the place where men usually just felt lust. This was deeper. He wiped a slow hand down his face. Then looked at her. Really looked.

And said, low, “…I love you.”

The words landed between them like thunder in reverse.

She froze.

Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t turn. Her breath hitched—quiet, sharp—and for a second, she looked like she didn’t trust her ears. Like the rain must’ve drowned out the meaning. But Stack didn’t take it back. He didn’t soften it. Didn’t dress it up. He just let it hang.

Truth.

Ragged and naked and real.

“Even with not fully understandin’ what you are,” he said, voice lower now, throat thick, “Don’t know how you shine the way you do. But it ain’t just that light I’m holdin’ onto.” He reached out, fingers brushing the side of her face, “You gave me somethin’…since the day I met you…in this moment…that I ain’t never had in all my years. Not like that. Not with nobody. Not even close.”

Finally—finally—her eyes turned toward him.

Wide. Wet. Searching.

“You thought showin’ me who you are would make me pull away,” he said, eyes not leaving hers, “But baby…it just made me see you clearer.”

Her lips parted. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers again, their breath mingling in the space between them.

“I love you, Amelia,” he whispered, “Not just your power. Not just your glow. You. The woman who ran. The woman who stayed. The woman who lit me up from the inside out and didn’t even know she did it.”

Silence stretched again. But this time, it was warm. Safe. Charged. And for the first time in a long time…Amelia didn’t feel afraid. She felt held. She didn’t move right away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared up at him, her eyes wide and soft and wet at the edges, like something inside her had been cracked open too fast, too deep, and she didn’t yet know if it would bleed or bloom. Stack’s forehead rested against hers.His breath was still shaky. And in the quiet after his words—words that had changed the air itself—Amelia finally spoke.

“…Say it again.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his.

And in them—behind the sheen of tears, beneath the ache of everything she’d kept hidden—was something almost too fragile to name.

Hope.

“I love you.”

His words still lingered in the space between them.I love you. And Amelia…she felt it in her chest. Thick and sharp and warm. She hadn’t moved. Not really. But her face had shifted, softening at the edges, the ache behind her eyes slowly unraveling into something else—something tender. Something terrifying. Her hand reached up, fingers brushing the side of his jaw, still damp with sweat and glow. And in a voice that broke just a little—

“I love you too,” she whispered.

Stack’s breath caught.

“I feel seen,” she whispered, “Like you looked at me and didn’t flinch. You still want me.”

Stack didn’t speak right away. He just leaned in and kissed her. And this time, it wasn’t just heat or hunger.

It was everything. A kiss that pulled from the deepest part of him. His mouth moved over hers slow, but full, his lips brushing her bottom lip before he captured it again, his hand fisting softly in her curls. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, both of them still sticky and warm and tangled up in the scent of each other.

Between kisses, his voice came out hoarse—

“I love you, girl…” Another kiss, “…don’t care if it’s fast.”Another, “I feel it in my fuckin’ bones.” He pressed his forehead to hers, “I ain’t never believed in soulmates before,” he said, “But now? Shit…it’s like my body knew you before my mind ever caught up.”

Amelia blinked, her mouth parted against his. And he smiled—soft, a little breathless, like he couldn’t believe this was real. Then slowly, he helped her sit up. The space between them was tender now. Heavy with meaning. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Stack moved with care. He reached into the front seat and pulled out a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Folded, pressed, still smelling faintly like tobacco and cedar. He knelt between her legs on the truck’s floorboard, kissed the inside of her thigh once, then gently began to clean her.

The car hummed steady beneath them, wheels chewing gravel, the afternoon sinking into that dusky hour where the whole sky went honey-colored at the edges and the trees cast long, tired shadows. Stack kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, just inches from where Amelia’s hand lay open. She wasn’t touching him. Not yet. But her pinky finger brushed his every time they hit a bump, like her magic was still trailing behind her glow, trying to decide if he really meant it—if he meant what he said back there in the rain.

You belong to me. And only me. I love you.

God, she had glowed.

Not figuratively—literally. Lit up like a matchstick in a dark field. Her fingertips had shimmered like fireflies caught in slow water, and he swore he could feel it in his chest, like something cracked open and hungry stirred inside him just to bask in it. He glanced at her now. She was leaned against the window, curls damp from the sex, eyes far-off. Real far. Like she was riding shotgun but her spirit was somewhere else entirely.

He hated that look.

That look that said I’m waiting for you to change your mind. Stack gritted his jaw, sharp profile catching the last of the fading light. His voice came low, like gravel dragged slow through honey, “You alright?”

Amelia nodded, but it wasn’t real. Wasn’t nothing about her nod that felt sure.

“You don’t gotta be scared of me,” he said, tapping the steering wheel with his thumb, “I already told you. I love you.”

Still, she didn’t speak.

Stack shifted in his seat, “I meant what I said. Don’t give a damn what Smoke say. Or Annie. Or if you set New Orleans on fire and left the ashes in your wake.” He turned his head slightly, voice thickening, “I’ll take you burnt up, babe. Still gon’ want you.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, “For how long?”

He didn’t answer that. Not right away. Just exhaled through his nose and leaned forward to squint past a fogged-up patch on the windshield. The truck slowed down just enough for him to pull off to the side of the road. The gravel crunched beneath the tires.

Engine idling. Evening insects whirring. The rain from earlier still lingered in the air like the ghost of something that hadn’t finished speaking.

He turned to her, “That ain’t fair.”

Amelia’s eyes finally met his. Big and soft and shining with leftover tears. She was shaking her head before he could even speak again.

“You ain’t seen the worst of me,” she said, “Not yet.”

Stack leaned in closer, brow furrowed, “And you think that’s gon’ make me run? After everything you just showed me? You think I’m the type to tuck tail ‘cause my girl got light in her bones and fire in her blood?”

She blinked, trembling, “I ain’t human.”

“You mine,” he said, “That’s all I need to know.”

A quiet sound broke from her throat. Like a sob trying not to be one. He reached over, slid his hand behind her neck and drew her in, foreheads pressed together, warm breath shared.

“We gon’ figure it out,” he murmured, thumb brushing her jaw, “Whatever you got buried, whatever comes next—we handle it together.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then her lips met his. Slow. Soft. But hungry. As if she was kissing him like it might be the last time, like the weight of her truth was still heavy but she wanted to carry it into his mouth. Stack kissed her back, hand on her throat, thumb tracing the line of her jaw, whispering between kisses.

“Mine. You hear me, baby? I said mine. I love you, Princess.”

And she did. Again and again. When she finally slid back into her seat, legs curled beneath her, Stack let the moment settle in the cab. Let her rest her head on the glass. Let her breathe. Then he put the truck in gear. He didn’t know what was waiting at Annie’s. But something deep in his gut, ancient and animal, was curling tight.

Something said: protect her. Keep her close. Brace for what’s coming. And so he drove— eyes fixed, hand steady, heart prepared. He would follow her into hell if he had to. And tonight might be the first step.

They came together, hand in hand. The old door of the shack creaked open under Stack’s palm, and the scent hit them first—a thick, resinous cloud of smoke and sage, bitter at the edges. The glow of the oil lamp on Annie’s altar flickered like a warning. Shadows danced long across the walls, and the heat inside the shack didn’t come from the weather.

It came from judgment.

Annie was seated at her altar, spine straight, hands folded in her lap like she’d been waiting for a confession. Her eyes were rimmed with the shine of something unreadable. Not quite anger. Not yet grief. Not yet. But something was already unraveling in her throat. Smoke stood nearby, leaned against the wooden beam by the hearth, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was a stormcloud—low and thick, watching without blinking. Watching Amelia. Amelia’s fingers tightened inside Stack’s as she hesitated. Something felt…off. The pressure in the room wrapped around her body like a noose. Her fae energy, usually fluid and unseen, now recoiled—like it was meeting another force head-on. The wards in Annie’s shack hummed in silent protest. Stack kept his posture easy, shoulders square, like he hadn’t just walked into a storm, “Evenin’,” he said, casual.

Neither of them replied.

Amelia looked between the two of them, trying to smile through the silence, “Annie?” she asked, voice soft, “Everything alright?”

Annie didn’t blink. Her voice came low. Steady, “You got somethin’ you wanna tell us, sugar girl?”

The warmth in Amelia’s cheeks faded. Her hand slipped from Stack’s. “Tell you…what you mean?”

Smoke stepped forward, slowly. Not a threat—yet—but close enough to let her feel how sharp the air had turned, “Don’t play dumb,” he said, “You been hidin’ somethin’. We can feel it.” His voice darkened, “I felt it the moment I laid eyes on you. The day we came back. Couldn’t name it then…but it’s been hangin’ in the air ever since. Stickin’ to my bones like swamp heat.” He glanced at Stack now, something accusatory flaring in his expression, “You still feel it too, don’t you?”

Stack’s jaw ticked.

“This that same shit you tried last time?” he asked, low and dangerous.m, “Sayin’ she dangerous? You wanna pull that again, Smoke? ’Cause I ain’t in the mood.”

Annie’s voice sliced through the space like flint.

“We ain’t askin’ what you felt, Elias. We askin’ her. Let the girl answer.”

Amelia’s mouth opened, then closed. Her voice caught in her throat. She looked to Stack, then back to Annie, confusion and fear rising in her like tidewater, “I don’t know what this is,” she said, barely above a whisper, “But if this about me bein’ here, or if I overstepped, I—I didn’t mean—”

Smoke interrupted her, “Don’t play in our faces now. You been in this house, walkin’ ‘round with your little glow. Leavin’ jars behind. Leavin’ questions. You knew this moment was comin’. Now act like it.”

Amelia blinked fast, her lips trembling, “I don’t know what you talkin’ about.”

Annie didn’t flinch. She just exhaled slowly—the kind of breath that said she already knew Amelia wasn’t going to tell the truth.

“Mmm,” Annie murmured, “Thought so. Thought you would come up in here lyin’.”

The room was still.

And then—slowly, purposefully—Annie stood from her altar and reached beneath it, drawing out something unseen. The moment cracked open. The silence between them swelled, thick with heat and something darker. Amelia’s skin prickled. Her pulse skittered. She’d been in Annie’s shack a dozen times, but tonight the shadows leaned in different. The altar candles flickered like they knew something she didn’t.

Stack’s thumb pressed to the inside of her wrist, trying to ground her, “This ain’t right,” he muttered, but not loud enough to stop it.

Smoke’s voice was a dry strike of flint, “Sit down.”

Amelia hesitated. She looked to Annie. Nothing but cold resolve in her face. Smoke nodded to the low wooden stools near the altar.

“Both of you.”

Stack bristled, “What the fuck is this?”

Annie still hadn’t blinked. She moved behind the altar slow and sure, like a priestess preparing sacrifice. She didn’t speak until the air grew sharp with burnt sage and suspicion.

“You wanna know what we found?” she said, not bothering to look at Amelia, “You been keepin’ secrets, sugar girl. But you weren’t as careful as you thought.”

Smoke crouched near the altar, lifting something wrapped in black cloth. He placed it down like it might bite. One jar. Then another. Glass, murky and pulsing with old light. One full of golden syrup thick as honey, petals floating soft as sighs. The other darker, fogged with rot. The liquid inside was no longer sweet. It was rust and ruin.

Annie pointed to the first, “This here?” she said, “A sweetenin’ jar. Real old. You been workin’ root.”

Amelia’s breath caught. She didn’t speak.

Annie tapped the second, “And this one? This used to be sweet too. But somethin’ died. And now it’s rotten. Love don’t rot like that unless there’s grief tied to it.”

Stack leaned forward, eyes narrowed, “What the hell is this?”

Smoke answered him, his voice flat and low, “These jars got names stitched into ‘em. Intent. You know what a sweetenin’ jar does, Stack?”

Amelia reached for Stack’s hand, but he didn’t take it. His eyes were locked on her. On the jars. Annie’s voice was like a needle threading through every crack in the room, “It pulls hearts. It twists want. Makes someone crave you. Be sweet on you. Fall deep. Even if they wouldn’t have been otherwise.”

Stack blinked, once. The air shifted, “You sayin’ she used that shit on me? On us?” Stack huffed in disbelief, “Nah…what I feel is real—nah.”

Annie didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Amelia’s voice cracked, “No. I—Stack, please. That ain’t how—”

Smoke cut in sharp, “What’d you do? Come here with sugar in your blood and a honey jar in your bag, just waitin’ to stir us up? You fucked my wife. My brother. Me. And the whole time, you had this sittin’ on your shelf? Playin’ mind games? Twisting hearts?”

Stack stood now, almost knocking his stool over with a sharp scrape. He didn’t look at Amelia—his eyes were fixed on the jars like they’d spat at him.

“You left this part out,” he said, voice tight, low, “When you told me about Celine. About Nathaniel. You said you ran ’cause you was scared. But this?” He jerked his chin at the jars, “This look like somethin’ else. This look like intent. Like you planned somethin’.”

Amelia’s throat tightened. Her voice wavered, “I didn’t come here to harm nobody—I swear to you. I came ‘cause I ain’t had no other place to go. Annie was the first person on my mind.”

“You ain’t need my help,” Annie cut in, voice sharp as broken glass, “You ain’t need to be my apprentice. You had your own damn craft. You came here to hide. Not to learn. I TRUSTED YOU. You lied to me, Amelia. Used me and my house and my protection for your own selfish reasons—”

Amelia’s lower lip trembled, “That’s not true…”

Stack’s stare didn’t leave the jars. His jaw worked, “Why would you put me in one of these?” he asked, his voice quieter, hoarse, “Was it me, Amelia? Tell me you ain’t put a root on me, baby.”

Before she could answer, Smoke snapped, voice like a gun cocking, “The rot jar got a name in it. We couldn’t see it at first—but Annie worked it.”

A beat of tension.

“Name in there was Nathaniel.”

Amelia froze.

But Stack didn’t. He straightened slowly and turned to them both, “Yeah,” he said, “I know. She told me.”

Smoke’s head jerked. Annie’s eyes flicked between them, “She told you?”

Stack nodded, “Nathaniel was her aunt’s husband.”

Annie blinked, “Husband? Celine?”

Amelia looked down, saying nothing. Her silence screamed. Stack kept going, “Celine’s here, by the way. She came lookin’. Showed up at the shack earlier askin’ questions. Been stayin’ in town under a false name. Turns out she paid some high-yellow nigga to trail Amelia. Take pictures. Been sendin’ ‘em back to her for weeks.”

That landed like a blow.

Smoke’s face twisted, “So she knew?”

Stack shrugged, “She knows somethin’. Enough to get on a train and come knockin’.”

Amelia closed her eyes. Her whole body dipped like something inside her had come loose. Then—her voice. Barely audible, “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Smoke’s face darkened, “You killed him?”

Her eyes opened again—glowing faint, rimmed with tears, a faint shimmer building beneath her skin like a heat mirage.

“It was an accident. I led him into the bayou. I just—I was upset. I lost control. And my light—my light took over.”

The room dropped into stunned silence. Annie’s voice came next. Just a breath.

“Feu follet.”

Amelia met her gaze. Annie took a slow step back, almost like the name itself pushed her, “That’s what you are. A bayou light. Fae.”

Smoke’s shoulders lifted, his breathing uneven, “So it’s true. That power I been feelin’ since the minute I saw you—wasn’t just in my head.” He pointed to the honey jar now, lips curled, “You sweetened us up. Caught us with light and rootwork. Had us all thinkin’ it was love.”

Annie’s arms crossed tight. Her tone was icy, “You lied to all of us. Lied with that glow in your skin. Lied with your lips, your mouth, your cryin’. Made us feel special. But it was spellwork. You ain’t need my craft. You came with yours tucked right in your little bag. You used me.”

Amelia’s voice broke, “Please…I never meant—”

“Don’t,” Smoke cut in, his voice cracking like thunder. “Don’t lie again.”

Stack stepped in, reaching for her arm. His grip was firm, steady—but there was pain in his eyes.

“You shoulda told me, baby. All of it. Every piece. I told you I loved you. Meant it. You shoulda given me the truth.”

She grabbed his hand, “I was scared you wouldn’t want me no more.”

Stack didn’t pull away, but he didn’t draw closer either. His stare bored through her, “This what you do when you scared? You make jars? Hide secrets? Twist love?”

“You said you loved me. I feel that it’s real…” Ameila trembled, “Stack—”

Annie’s voice was cold iron now, “You don’t get to be scared when folks died behind your silence.”

Smoke shook his head, bitter, “You came here runnin’, and we opened the door. Let you in. And what’d you do?” He pointed at the jars again, “You rooted yourself in us. Made yourself a place. And now everything’s comin’ apart.”

Amelia could feel her light swelling, pressing against the room, pushing into the creases between floorboards and bones.

Something in the air crackled. She shook. And then the tears came. The room held its breath.

Amelia’s light pulsed in waves now—hot and humming. Like heat off coals. Her tears shimmered as they fell, but her face had changed. No longer pleading.

Just glowing. Wild, beautiful. Dangerous.

Stack stepped toward her again, his hand out like he might calm her, catch her before she cracked, “Hey. Look at me, baby,” he said, voice low, “We can get through this. But you gotta breathe.”

She blinked hard. Her mouth trembled, “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt nobody. I was just…I was alone.”

Annie’s voice cut through like a blade, “But you did hurt people. And now you still hidin’ behind that sad little light like it don’t burn.”

Amelia’s jaw twitched.

“That light of yours…” Smoke’s voice came low, cold, “It don’t save. It hurts. Hurts people who get too close.”

Amelia’s eyes flashed. She looked at him like he’d slapped her, “I don’t hurt nobody on purpose.”

“Don’t matter,” Smoke said, stepping in, his expression storm-dark, “You bring your secrets here, your power, your tricks—and folks get burned.”

“I was scared,” she choked out, “I was alone. I didn’t come to do harm—”

“But harm came anyway, didn’t it?” Annie snapped, “Soon as you crossed my threshold.”

Smoke’s voice dropped low, guttural, “You fucked us all. With that sweet tongue and that spellwork. Like a little bayou whore with a sugarbox.”

“Enough.” Stack’s voice thundered, deep and sharp. He turned on Smoke, chest tight with rage, “She ain’t what you sayin’. I know her!!”

“You sure?” Smoke snapped, “Or you only think you know her ‘cause she bottled you up and poured herself into your fuckin’ bloodstream.”

“Man, cut that shit!” Stack shouted, “I’m warnin’ you now.”

“Or what?” Smoke’s tone dropped. His hand was near his hip, that old instinct flaring, “You gonna hit me over her?!”

The room vibrated with the threat. Annie was already moving around the altar, trying to get between them. But it was Amelia who broke.

“STOP!” she screamed, her voice echoing, light flaring around her like it had torn through the seams of her skin.

The walls shuddered. Shelves rattled. The altar groaned. And Stack—closest to her—was flung backward by the blast of fae energy, like a body hit by an invisible wave. He crashed into Annie’s shelf of dried herbs and glass bottles, knocking them all to the floor in a smashing rain.

“STACK!” Amelia screamed.

He didn’t answer. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud. Still.

Annie cried out, stumbling toward him, “Oh God…no—”

Smoke moved fast—faster than thought—gun drawn from his waistband. The glint of metal caught in the candlelight.

Smoke moved fast—faster than thought—gun drawn from his waistband. The glint of metal caught in the candlelight.

“Don’t take another fuckin’ step,” he growled at Amelia, “I swear it.”

Amelia stood frozen. Light sparking from her fingertips. Her mouth parted in horror.

“I didn’t mean to—Stack—”

“Back up!” Smoke bellowed, “You don’t get to cry now. You don’t get to grieve him. You did this!”

“Please,” Amelia sobbed, “Please, I didn’t mean—”

“You did. And you don’t get to run from it this time.”

But she did. She turned, bolted through the door, the light in her chest flickering like a candle about to go out. Annie shouted after her—voice cracking—

“Amelia!”

But she was already gone. Out the shack. Into the trees. No coat. No shoes. No plan. Only light. And grief. And the wreckage left behind. Branches whipped past her face as she ran, wild and blind, her lungs clawing at the night air. Amelia didn’t know how long she’d been running—only that her legs burned, her curls were soaked from the rain, and her heart was splintering with every step. She tore through the trees like a hunted thing, her dress catching on underbrush, the damp earth sucking at her shoes. Her sobs were broken things now, hiccupped between gasps as her light buzzed beneath her skin—too hot, too shaken, too close to shattering. She didn’t stop until the forest thickened around her. A dense wall of pine and fog wrapped her in shadow. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled against the base of a gnarled cypress, clutching her sides as she broke down. The cries came raw—high, keening, guttural. Not just grief. Guilt. Rage. Fear. Her hands trembled as they buried into the damp moss, her whole body bowing forward like the earth might swallow her whole and end it.

And then—her light twitched. Amelia’s eyes snapped open, wet lashes fluttering. Something ancient stirred in the air. The kind of wrong her fae blood recognized before her human mind could name it. The atmosphere shifted—like the wind had forgotten which way to blow. The smell of rot crept in behind the scent of pine. Coldness slithered between the trees.

Something was here. Her spine went rigid. Her fingers began to glow faintly at the tips, as if her power had flared in warning. Unbidden. Protective. She stood slowly, eyes wide, heart galloping now for a different reason.

That’s when he stepped out. From between the blackened trunks, a figure emerged like a smudge against the night—tall, thin, disheveled in long, tattered wool. His coat looked torn from decades of wandering. Boots scuffed. Hair damp and clinging to his forehead. Pale. Chilling. Leprechaun in stature. And his eyes. Too shiny. Too empty. Dead. They gleamed, his eyes a deep, blood-red color that grows, like a thing that didn’t belong in any season of the living. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as if the very air was intoxicating. Then he smiled. A wide, too-sharp grin that never reached his eyes.

“Well, well, well…” he drawled, voice rich and cracked like a violin outta tune, “Ain’t you sweet, darlin’. Bit far from home, ain’t you? Wrong realm.”

Amelia took a step back, fists clenched at her sides, her light humming low like a warning bell.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He tilted his head, lips twitching, “Name’s Remmick.” He let the name hang like a cigarette burn, “And you are?”

She said nothing. Her silence only made his grin widen.

“Aw, now don’t be shy. Let me guess…somethin’ soft. Somethin’ sweet. Somethin’ not from here.”

He stepped forward. She stepped back.

Remmick sniffed again, sharp and slow, like he was tasting her scent on his tongue. A shudder ran through his shoulders. His smile faltered—twisted into something…hungrier.

“Mm. That’s it. That smell. Been waitin’ a long time to catch one of your kind.” He licked his bottom lip, “Fae blood. Hot and ancient. But you…you ain’t full-blood, are you?” His gaze narrowed, and his eyes flared red, glowing from within like something lit behind bone, “You smell like a halflin’. Not dull. But not pure neither. Still powerful. Still just as tasty.”

Amelia’s stomach dropped. Her glow brightened on instinct, her fingertips trembling with heat, “Stay away from me,” she warned, voice cracking.

But Remmick was already stepping closer. One foot dragging slightly behind the other, like something unhinged. The hunger in him was no longer subtle. His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed her in like opium.

“I can’t do that,” he said softly.

Her voice shook, “Why not?”

His mouth twitched. The last of the false charm drained from his face, “’Cause I’m hungry. And I need to feed. Had a little taste in the town over but…been sleep a while…”

Then—his jaw clicked. With a sickening sound, his lips peeled back to reveal long, sharp fangs. Not clean, elegant fangs like myths told of. These were jagged. Ancient. Yellowed at the base. Designed not to pierce—but to tear.

Amelia screamed.

Her light burst like a flare. And the woods swallowed her scream whole.

Belo Horizonte, Brazil | March 2021 | 6:42 PM

The sun was still up, but barely. The sky stretched wide and low over the city like melted tangerine. Everything below it moved. Too loud, too close, too alive. Mopeds weaved through traffic without brakes or mercy. Women shouted in Portuguese across balconies, laundry lines swaying in the heat. Street kids dribbled flattened soccer balls through dust clouds. The scent of fried meat and engine oil lingered in the air, thick as sweat.

And cutting through all of it—a little boy.

Maybe ten.

Brown, barefoot, fast.

He darted up the sloped alley like he was being chased, threading between fruit crates and motorcycles, dodging dogs, almost slipping on a cracked beer bottle. One hand held a plastic bag tight to his chest. His T-shirt was damp, collar stretched, flip-flops smacking the concrete with every step.

Every breath. Every bounce. Every blur of the city behind him. He didn’t knock when he got to the third floor. Just tapped once with his knuckles on the warped door. Slid the bag to the floor. Turned his body sideways.

And waited.

A beat.

Then, a hundred-real bill slipped out through the narrow gap beneath the door. Crisp and folded. The boy snatched it up without a word, glanced once over his shoulder, and bolted back down the steps before the dogs came sniffing.

Inside? Quiet. Still. Hot.

The door creaked open after the boy had vanished. A hand reached out—big, brown, scarred—and pulled the bag inside.

No words. Just movement.

The flat was nothing.

Four walls and sweat.

The fan in the corner clicked with a limp rhythm, more noise than breeze. A bare bulb hummed overhead. The walls were the color of old smoke. Concrete floor. Iron-barred window. Nothing fancy. Nothing soft.

The food went straight to the table.

He moved like he’d done this a hundred times.

Erik Stevens.

Thirty-something.

Ex-black ops.

Ex-everything.

He wasn’t built for rest, but he knew when to vanish. He’d just finished a job on the coast—surveillance turned extraction, turned bloody cleanup. The money hit his burner laptop an hour ago. Enough for silence. Enough to wait. Now he was laying low. Eating slow. Watching the sky bleed orange through the bars.

His chest was bare. Tattooed. Marked. Carved.

Scars mapped across his skin like warnings, each one raised and deliberate, a keloid for every life he took. He’d stopped counting a long time ago, but the pattern kept going. Chest to ribs to shoulder. Sharp, neat, intentional. His arms flexed as he reached for the fork. Gold teeth caught the light when he chewed. His dreads were tied back, half-wet from the bucket shower he’d taken earlier. A black scarf still hung around his neck. His lower jaw ticked while he read through the file again on his phone —encrypted, disappearing text, sent from a contact he didn’t trust but couldn’t ignore.

Another job was coming.

But not yet.

He leaned back in the chair, let the sweat bead down his chest, tapped the edge of his empty glass. His hand drifted toward the burner phone on the table.

Black. Old. Untraceable. Only one number saved. Only one voice worth hearing.

He unlocked it. Dialed. The screen on the phone flickered to life, low brightness, no name. Just a number, one he knew by muscle memory. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear.

Two rings.

Then her voice hit him like light cracking through brick.

“Damn, you finally callin’ like a normal human being.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just breathed, slow and steady.

“You straight?” he asked, voice thick, low, “School good?”

Her laughter was immediate—light, sharp, familiar. It filled up the space around him, even from continents away. He didn’t smile, not really. But his eyes eased. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders dropped a little.

“School good,” she said, stretching it out with that Oaktown bounce in her voice, “Stressful, annoying, dumb as hell sometimes, but good. You still sound like you in a bunker. You sleepin’ in a damn cave, Erik?”

He grunted, barely amused, “Nah.”

“You always be on that Jason Bourne shit,” she teased.

He looked at the half-eaten food in front of him. Fan still ticking in the background, “Something like that.”

“Mmhmm.” She clicked her tongue, “Anyway, guess what? I got the fellowship in Atlanta.”

His eyes lifted, just slightly, “Yeah?”

“Yeah! I leave in two weeks. I’m lit. I told Bri to stay at the apartment while I’m gone—so the plants don’t die.”

He leaned back in the chair again, eyes narrowing just a little, “Bri?”

“Sanaa, E. Bri. You know I’m the only one that call her that.”

He was quiet for a beat, “I know.”

Aaliyah didn’t catch the shift in his tone. She was too busy running her mouth, “She got finals and shit anyway. If you’re coming in town she’ll be there. Just don’t be actin’ all scary and big brother-y. She grown now, for real.”

He dragged a hand down his face, stared out the window at the sun dipping low behind concrete and wire. Her words sat heavy in the space.

He cleared his throat, glanced back at the folder he’d closed earlier, “Proud of you. Keep your head down.”

“I always do, old man. When you flying in?”

“End of the week.”

She let out a satisfied breath, “Good. I miss you, even though you get on my nerves.”

He said nothing, but stayed on the line for a few seconds longer than needed. Listening to her move around. Her voice in the distance. It reminded him why he did what he did.

Then he ended the call, slow.

Phone dropped back on the table.

Sun gone now.

And in the back of his mind…

Sanaa.

Washington, D.C. | Howard University | March 2021 | 6:17 PM

Golden hour hit different in D.C.

It slipped between the buildings soft and syrupy, making everything look like a slow-motion music video. The sidewalk glowed warm under acrylics and ankle socks. Students drifted out of Douglass Hall in small clusters—arguing, flirting, passing vapes and group chat tea.

But the one who caught eyes every damn time?

Aaliyah Stevens.

Five-foot-three, thighs soft, hips poking out of that black mini skirt, cropped Howard hoodie barely meeting her waistline. A slick low bun pulled her baby hairs into crisp formation. Nose highlight glowing. Lip gloss fat. AirPods in. Megan Thee Stallion blasting.

Her walk?

Rude.

Every step said “I know I’m fine.”

Booty swayed like it was timed to the beat. She pulled her phone up, camera flipped. Checked her reflection quick. Flash of lashes, edge check, lip bite.

Perfect.

Then she cut across the street, stepping over a pothole like it offended her, and dipped down a quieter block toward the apartment. They stayed in a brownstone walk-up just a few minutes off-campus. Black-owned building. Third floor. The kind of spot that didn’t look like much on the outside. But inside?

All her.

She unlocked the door with a twist of her hips, nails clacking against her keychain, and stepped inside with her usual announcement.

“I’m home! Don’t be in here naked, bitch—Hope you got the snacks!”

No response. She figured Sanaa wasn’t back yet. But she always said it, just in case. The apartment was warm and lived in—walls a soft beige, one accent wall painted burnt orange. Plants crowded the window sill like a green auntie army. A chunky rust-colored sectional took up most of the living room, covered in African print throw pillows and one very well-loved faux fur blanket. The coffee table was Black as hell. Stack of Essence magazines. Ashtray with a half-burnt incense stick. A pink lighter. Remote. Glass tray full of rings, bobby pins, and unopened lip gloss tubes. A tray of crystals that did not work but looked cute.

On the walls?

Black art only.

Thick girls in line drawings. A stretched canvas of a Black girl with gold grills and Bantu knots. Another of Assata Shakur in bold red paint. She dropped her tote on the floor, kicked off her sneakers, and headed to the kitchen, gold anklet flashing with every step. The open layout let her keep one eye on the front door. In the kitchen, open shelving with jars of jasmine rice, brown sugar, instant grits. Fridge covered in affirmations, memes, takeout menus.

And a handwritten note taped up that said:

Keep that ass moisturized and that GPA up!!!

Aaliyah

She poured herself half a glass of mango juice, popped open a fresh pack of peach rings, and turned up her music before heading down the hall. She didn’t bother glancing at Erik’s door. It stayed closed. Instead, she passed it and slipped into her own room—still mid-rap, still chewing, still fine as hell.

Aaliyah dropped onto her chair like it owed her something. Her room was still warm from the sun, golden light spilling over her mirror and glinting off her makeup collection. Her LED lights were off, but the vibe was still full-blown Black Girl Deluxe.

On her desk her laptop already open, three tabs deep into a media theory paper A spiral notebook half-full of bullet points and highlighter marks A lavender candle burned low beside an open pack of gum One lash sitting lonely on top of her mousepad like it died in battle. She pulled her legs up into the chair and sat cross-legged, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.For the next few minutes, she was focused—tapping keys, scrolling through readings, chewing on her pen cap like it might feed her answers.

But then, her phone buzzed. Twice. Not her regular account.

The other one.

She side-eyed it, popped the peach ring in her mouth, and reached for her iPad instead.

Face ID unlocked it quick.

She opened her favorite banking app—the one that didn’t send push notifications, the one linked to a routing number that didn’t have her name on it. And just like that, there it was:

$10,000.00 | Incoming Transfer | “Stay ahead.”

Her lips curled slow. Not surprised. Just confirmed.

“Okay, baller…”

No rent. No bills. No stress.

Her tuition had been handled before the semester even started. The apartment? Erik paid for it in full, in his name. No landlord, no roommates, no questions. All she had to do was show up to class and get that degree. He made sure of that. He didn’t call it love. Didn’t say it much. But this? This was it.

Then she shot him a quick text.

Thanks Bro! Love you! 

No emoji.

He probably wouldn’t respond. But she knew he read every word.

After a while, Aaliyah flopped back onto her bed, satin bonnet slipping slightly sideways, AirPods still in. She was half-grinning at her phone screen before she even hit the FaceTime button.

Bri 💅🏾

The contact popped up with a photo from their last girls’ night—Sanaa in a tube top, biting her straw, eyes low, looking like the baddie she is. 

Two rings.

Then that soft-ass voice picked up, “What’s up, ho?”

Aaliyah cackled immediately, “You lucky I love you. Don’t be answering the phone like you got hands.”

Sanaa was on the other end, walking down Georgia Ave, curly hair pulled into a loose bun, gold hoops catching the last of the sun. Her lips were glossy. Her eyes looked tired but warm.

“You get outta class already?” Aaliyah asked, flipping onto her stomach and kicking her feet up behind her.

“Yeah, just now. Professor Hill talkin’ like she wasn’t tryna dismiss us early. Like ma’am, wrap it up, I’m hungry.”

“You always hungry,” Aaliyah teased, “You ate before class.”

“That was five hours ago and it was a granola bar. Be serious.”

“You a granola bar.”

Sanaa just rolled her eyes and kept walking, “You home?”

“Been home. You the one takin’ the scenic route.”

“I’m literally five minutes away.”

“Uh huh. That’s what you said last time and showed up with Cold Stone and a man’s hoodie.”

Sanaa smirked, “And I ain’t share either.”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes playfully, “Bitch, I will fight you.”

They laughed together, easy and unbothered, the kind of laughter that came from years of knowing each other’s tells. Sanaa paused to dig in her purse, then slid her phone into her back pocket so the camera showed nothing but sidewalk and her shadow. She grabbed for it again, holding her phone in one hand while she applied clear Fenty gloss with the other. 

 “You went to the store and didn’t ask me if I wanted nothin’? That’s fake.”

Sanaa smirked, “Girl, relax. I already grabbed your spicy plantain chips. Gold bag. I got you.”

Aaliyah grinned, “See? That’s why you my bitch. You always know.”

“Exactly.”

Aaliyah paused, then lowered her voice, teasing, “You wearin’ that little black set? The one with the thin-ass straps?”

Sanaa didn’t respond right away.

Which was its own answer.

Aaliyah grinned, “I knew it. I ain’t even mad at you. It’s hot as hell and you got hips. Let ‘em breathe.”

Sanaa giggled under her breath, “You got class tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately. Nine a.m. I’m about to act like I’m going.”

“You not.”

“You right.”

Sanaa’s voice went soft, almost lazy, “Alright, I’m walkin’ up now.”

“Door’s unlocked. Don’t let no ghosts in behind you.”

“You stupid.”

They hung up.

Washington, D.C. | Howard University Apartment | 7:47 PM

The door clicked open slow. No rush.

Sanaa stepped inside like she’d always lived there, because truthfully, it felt like she had. Her keys jingled once before she dropped them in the little ceramic tray by the door, next to Aaliyah’s tangled keychain and a half-burnt scented candle. Her sandals slid off smooth, toe rings flashing as she stepped onto the cool wood floors.

Soft light from the living room window stretched across her skin, warm and golden. The kind of light that didn’t ask for attention but gave it anyway. She smelled like vanilla and coconut, with a little spice clinging to the crook of her neck. Her curls were pulled up into a loose bun, a few strands falling by her cheek. A black spaghetti strap tank hugged her chest. Her shorts were high and small, just enough fabric to keep the peace, but not enough to stop a man from thinking.

She walked through the living room, bag of snacks under one arm, the soft pad of her bare feet almost silent. The apartment was quiet now. Megan’s voice had faded. Sanaa didn’t call out. She didn’t need to. They always gave each other space when it was this close to nightfall. After long classes. After D.C. heat and campus noise. The silence was part of their rhythm. She paused near the hallway, glanced toward Aaliyah’s door, heard faint movement behind it—soft music, maybe the sound of nails tapping a screen. Then her eyes slid to the one door that stayed closed.

Then she turned and headed toward her own room.

Warm tones. Vanilla candles. Her desk stacked with textbooks and highlighters. Her silk robe draped over her desk chair. Her bed made, but not tight. Just the way she left it—half-inviting, like she planned to crawl back in. She set the bag down on the dresser. Opened it. Pulled out Aaliyah’s spicy plantain chips and her own bottle of mango juice. And then she sat at the edge of the bed, crossed one leg over the other, and exhaled.

For a moment, it was just her and the silence again. The weight of the day slipping off her shoulders. The faint hum of the city beyond the window. Her candle flickering, the air sweet. She leaned back on her hands, let her head tip slightly to the side, eyes scanning her bedroom like she was checking herself into calm. There was nowhere else she needed to be. No one demanding her attention. Just a warm space, good light, and peace she’d earned. But something about the quiet still made her heart feel a little too aware.

Like it knew something she didn’t.

Like it was waiting for the air to change.

The knock on her door wasn’t really a knock. More like a “bop-bop” with nails, followed by it swinging open without waiting for a response. Aaliyah leaned in, bonnet already slightly shifted to the side, Fenty gloss worn off her lips but confidence still strong.

“You eatin’ without me?”

Sanaa blinked slow, “figured you were busy studying.”

Aaliyah stepped in with no hesitation, snatched the gold bag off the dresser, and flopped right down on the bed like she paid rent in the room too.

“You be so fake sometimes,” she said, mouth full, plantain chips crunching, “I literally just told you I was hungry.”

“And I literally already bought you the chips.”

“Still fake.”

Sanaa smiled but didn’t say much. She leaned back on her elbow, sipping her mango juice, eyes half-lidded while Aaliyah tore into the bag like it owed her.

“I blocked Jordan today.”

Sanaa raised a brow but didn’t interrupt, “Like—blocked blocked. 

“I’m not going back. I don’t care if he send flowers, food, or money.” 

Sanaa nodded slow, amused, “You gon’ unblock him next week.”

“I won’t. I swear on Beyoncé.”

“You swore on Beyoncé last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

They laughed. The kind that lived in the throat, not loud, just warm. Aaliyah sat criss-cross near the edge of the bed, licking salt off her fingers, eyes cutting to Sanaa like she was already planning her next topic.

“Oh—don’t forget, you got that lil date this weekend.”

Sanaa didn’t react.

Aaliyah tilted her head, “You still goin’?”

Sanaa gave a small shrug, pulled her braid over her shoulder and started twisting the end between her fingers, “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just tired,” Sanaa said softly, “Like, niggas don’t be offering shit but recycled game and headaches.”

“Whew. Say that.”

“They all talkin’ the same, dressin’ the same, tryin’ to fuck the same. I’m over it.”

Aaliyah stared at her like she’d heard that same tone too many times, “You need to get laid.”

“I need to be left alone.”

They both fell quiet for a second. Not awkward just understood. Sanaa leaned her head back against the headboard, voice low.

“It’s not even that I don’t want it. I just…want something that don’t feel like I’ve done it ten times already, you know?”

Aaliyah sighed and reached for another chip, “I do.”

The moment settled between them. Comfortable. Easy. Safe. Neither of them knew that by the next day, the energy in that apartment was gonna shift completely. And neither of them was ready for who would walk through that door next.

Belo Horizonte, Brazil | March 2021 | 1:13 AM

The street was quiet.

Too quiet.

Even for this side of the city.

Erik knew the rhythm of the neighborhood by now, the way the dogs barked when the clubs let out, how the stray motorcycle sounds usually died down after midnight, how the old man next door always slammed his shutters right before bed.

But tonight?

Nothing.

He stood shirtless by the window, gold-rimmed glasses glinting as he watched the alley below. The fan behind him clicked on low, soft hum breaking through the thick, humid air. Sweat rolled slow down his spine. His burner phone was off. His laptop closed. His gear already packed. He was leaving at sunrise. Or at least that was the plan.

Then came the flicker.

A shadow moved wrong in the alley. No rhythm to it. Too still between steps.

Erik didn’t move.

Another form appeared, posted across the street like a man waiting on a cigarette that never came. A third leaned against the wall outside the downstairs bakery—too clean, too stiff, too white to blend.

They weren’t Brazilian. And they weren’t local.

Erik moved quiet.

He grabbed the 9mm from beneath his bedframe, checked the mag, and slid a blade into his waistband just behind his back. His shirt stayed off. No need. His body was already marked like war paint. The moment his door handle creaked, he was already behind it.

The first one in? Didn’t even get a name.

Erik caught him by the neck, slammed his head into the edge of the table, and dragged the body backward like he was taking out trash. No noise. Just weight.

Second one came in hotter.

Gun drawn. Mouth open.

Erik dropped low and sliced him from ankle to thigh, kicked his knee sideways, and used the man’s own body to shield himself as bullets tore into the far wall. The safe house lit up, muzzle flashes painting the concrete orange and red. Erik pushed forward. Knife buried in flesh. Pulled the pistol off the downed man’s hip and returned fire.

One in the doorway tried to backpedal, but Erik was already there.

Three shots.

All chest.

No hesitation.

Blood soaked into the fan’s breeze.

Boots slipped on broken tile.

His breath stayed steady.

He moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times and didn’t lose sleep over the first. Four men down. All foreign. Tactical boots. Military gear. Matching patches covered in black sharpie.

One still breathing.

Erik dragged him by the collar into the kitchen and pressed a boot to his chest and gun to his throat.

“Who sent you?”

The man spat blood. Smiled, “Didn’t think you’d still be alive after Kandahar.”

Erik’s jaw clenched.

Old ghosts.

They weren’t here on a mission. They were here on vengeance. Ex-black ops turned freelancers—washed out, pissed off, still sore about how shit ended overseas.

“Just us?” Erik asked.

The man didn’t answer. Erik pulled the trigger once. No ceremony. When it was done, he sat on the edge of the bed. Breathing slow, covered in someone else’s blood, staring at nothing. His body buzzed with adrenaline. But his mind was already three steps ahead.

How’d they find him?

They weren’t local. They weren’t smart. Which meant someone had to give them a trail. Someone who did know where he was. Erik stood up. Washed his hands in the rusted sink. Packed the last of his things. Burned the SIM card. Left the bodies where they dropped.

He needed to get the fuck out of Brazil.

And he needed to disappear long enough to find the source. He only knew one place quiet enough. Safe enough to stay ghosted for a while.

Erik stared at the last body for a second longer than necessary, then snapped out of it. He wiped his hands on a rag, snatched his backpack, and zipped it smooth and quiet. Inside: a second burner phone, emergency documents, foreign cash, a hard drive with names that could set countries on fire, and a clean black tee.

He didn’t bother changing. He’d leave a trail.

No prints. No trace.

He moved fast.

Down the back stairwell, barefoot at first to quiet his steps. His boots dangled from one hand. In the other— his blade and pistol.

No words. No panic.

Just math.

How long before someone realized they were dead? How long before the bodies bled through the floorboards?

Not long enough.

Ten minutes later, he was crouched in the shadow of an alley, behind a shuttered repair shop near the edge of town. The streetlight overhead flickered, washing him in yellow every few seconds like a strobe. His back pressed to the wall, sweat drying cold on his chest.

He pulled out the second burner. One bar of signal. That’s all he needed. He scrolled past a list of dead numbers until he hit the one marked with a single dot. No name. No tag.

Just a dot.

He pressed CALL.

It rang twice. Then clicked.

A man’s voice answered. Thick African accent, low and alert.

“…You alive?”

Erik didn’t waste time, “Need an exfil. Quiet. No questions.”

There was silence on the other end. Then a breath.

“Fucking hell, Stevens. I thought you were buried in the Gulf.”

“Almost was.”

“You hot?”

“Four bodies in a safe house.”

“Shit.”

A brief rustling, followed by the sound of keys typing. Then the voice came back.

“Alright. I can get you out. Not from there. Too close to the city. You need to move. I’ll ping a drop zone—helicopter, military grade, discreet. But I can’t wait long. Be there by dawn or you’re on your own.”

Erik nodded once, “Copy.”

“One more thing…”

“What?”

“If they found you there, they’ll find you here. You know that, right?”

“I ain’t staying.”

Click.

By the time Erik slipped into the backseat of the beat-up SUV parked two blocks over, he’d already wiped down the phone and tossed it in a sewer drain. The driver didn’t speak. Erik handed him a small envelope. That was enough.

They drove with the headlights off.

Out of the city. Past the favelas. Into the hills where the air got thicker and the roads turned to dirt. A goat wandered across the road and the driver didn’t even flinch. Neither did Erik. He sat in the dark, eyes scanning every tree line, pistol resting on his thigh.

At dawn, the helicopter would be there.

He’d be gone.

And whoever leaked his location? He’d find them. But first, he needed to disappear. And if there was one place that could hold him quiet, keep him off-grid, and offer just enough peace to plan his next move, it was the apartment in D.C.

Aaliyah didn’t need to know what he’d just crawled out of.

All she needed to know was he was coming.

Mountains Outside Belo Horizonte | March 2021 | 4:57 AM

The helicopter came low and quiet over the hills, no lights, no sound but a distant chop that blended into the wind. Industrial gray, military-grade, black rotor blades slicing through the sky. Not a government model. Something dirtier. Paid for in favors.

Erik stood still in the clearing.

Boots laced. Bag on his back. Blood washed off, but his knuckles still raw. The SUV driver had dropped him a mile down, never looking back. As the chopper touched down, dust kicked up around him. He covered his face with his scarf and moved, fast but controlled. The side door slid open before he reached it. A masked man inside nodded once. No words.

Erik climbed in.

The door shut.

They lifted off before his boots even settled. They flew low. Over slums, rivers, fields split by train tracks and rusted freight cars. He didn’t speak. Just watched the land shift from jungle to mountain to mist. Forty-seven minutes later, they touched down in the outskirts of a mining town long abandoned. No city noise. No eyes. Just one rusting compound half-buried behind overgrowth.

The Safe Zone.

Old hideout from a job years ago. Owned by no one. Wired by him.

Erik stepped out before the rotors stopped, ducked into the building’s side entrance, and locked the door behind him. Inside: dust, concrete, faint generator hum.

But it had what he needed.

A stash box with clean clothes.

A loaded Glock and spare mags.

Burner passports. 

A mirror.

A sat phone.

He peeled off his sweat-stuck tee, wiping the side of his face. The scars on his chest rose in the low light like topography—old pain carved into habit. He pulled on a fresh black shirt. Slid the Glock into the shoulder holster. Washed his face in a metal basin. Dried it with a rag from the crate. Then he sat down on a metal crate, opened the sat phone, and scrolled to a name.

Call sign: Wolf 7.

He pressed CALL.

Didn’t wait long.

“Stevens.”

A sharp voice. Clean English. Female.

“I got hit in Brazil.”

Static, then silence.

“You alive?” she asked.

“Barely.”

“How many?”

“Four. Military-trained. Not locals.”

“Fuck.”

Erik exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing, “Somebody gave them my location.”

“Could’ve been a pattern leak. Your routes, your reload pings—”

“I don’t move sloppy.”

Another pause.

“You think it’s internal?”

“I think it’s someone who knows how I think.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t deny.

“Do you need pullback?”

“I need answers.”

“Then you better disappear for real this time. Keep your face out of every camera. Don’t use your real name, don’t use any contact unless it’s me.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’m flying out in six. To lay low.”

“You sure?”

“I got a place.”

“Where?”

He didn’t answer.

Click.

Erik tossed the sat phone into the crate, grabbed his travel bag, and checked the Glock one more time. He was already halfway out the door when he stopped and looked back. The place was stripped now. No traces. No fingerprints. The bodies in Brazil would be found soon. And whoever sent those men? They’d learn quick that Erik Stevens don’t just survive.

He comes back swinging.

D.C. Apartment | March 2021 | 9:14 PM

The dining room smelled like burning amber and garlic butter. The pizza box was open on the table between them, crusts bitten off and tossed back in the box like wrappers. A bottle of wine sat on the kitchen island—half-drunk, cheap, and sweet as hell. The kind of bottle you didn’t need a reason to open.

Sanaa sat cross-legged in her spaghetti strap top and those little grey shorts that always rode up. Aaliyah was sprawled sideways on the chair, bonnet lopsided, leggings on, her bare foot digging into the throw carpet like she was nesting.

Music played low from the speaker—SZA. Something with a bassline that made your bones feel soft.

And in the middle of it all?

Legos.

Not a big set. Just a tiny pastel house kit Aaliyah grabbed for $12 at Target “for mental health reasons.” They built slow between bites and sips, fingers brushing as they passed pieces. No rush.

Sanaa sipped from her glass, eyes half-lidded, “This door don’t make no damn sense.”

“It’s upside down, genius.”

“No, it’s artistic.”

“You just wrong.”

They laughed again—soft, full, tipsy. The incense curled behind them in the window draft. Aaliyah set down her wine, stretched her arms over her head, then let them flop across the table. Her voice dropped to that dreamy, content tone she got after food and wine.

“You know I leave for Atlanta in two weeks.”

Sanaa blinked, “Damn. Already?”

“Yep. Fellowship starts in three weeks. They covering my stay and everything.”

Sanaa smiled, small and real, “I’m proud of you, girl. For real.”

Aaliyah rolled over on her stomach, chin on her forearms, “I’ma miss this though. Us. This vibe. Wine and legos and fake-deep convos at 2 a.m.”

“Girl, we gon’ FaceTime every night. You not escaping me.”

They clinked glasses.

A moment passed—just the music and the incense and the comfort of being fed, warm, and unbothered.

Then Aaliyah grinned, “Guess who called me today?”

Sanaa reached for another slice, “Who? An old fling from back home tryna slide again?”

They both laughed loud, wine glasses tipping.

Aaliyah shook her head. “No, bitch. Erik.”

Sanaa’s hand paused mid-air. A single blue Lego brick hovered between her fingers.

“…Erik?”

Aaliyah nodded like it was casual, “Mhm. My brother.”

Sanaa’s eyes flicked toward the pizza, then back to her friend. She forced a little laugh, “Damn. He still alive?”

“Barely. He sound tired as hell. Called from some weird-ass number like always, like he sittin’ in a cave or a villain lair or some shit.”

Sanaa let out another laugh, smaller this time, “He always been mysterious.”

Aaliyah stretched again, giggling, “He work too much. Never comes around, but he make sure I’m good. Sends money, paid for this whole place…I ain’t gotta worry about nothin’ except getting that degree.”

Sanaa swirled what was left of her wine, “That’s love.”

“It is,” Aaliyah said softly, “He quiet about it, but he be watching. Always tapped in.” Then she grinned again, playful, “I wonder if he remembers you.”

Sanaa snorted, “Girl, stop.”

“I’m just sayin’. You was always hangin’ around back then.”

“That was forever ago.”

“You had the biggest crush.”

“I did not.”

“You used to get real quiet when he came in the room.”

Sanaa threw a Lego at her. Aaliyah ducked, still laughing.

“I’m just playin’,” she said, “He probably don’t remember.”

“Probably not,” Sanaa echoed, biting into her pizza again.

But her mind wasn’t on crust.

She hadn’t seen Erik in years. Not since high school graduation. Five whole years. He’d been older, quiet, always in the background—but something about him had always made her pulse slow. He wasn’t like the other guys. He didn’t try to impress. He watched.

She reached for their wine glasses, “Want a refill?”

“Duh.”

Sanaa stood, smoothed her shorts, and walked toward the kitchen. From the sink, she called back, casual.

“He probably changed a lot over the years, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Aaliyah called, “He bulked up. Got even quieter. He don’t even post.”

“No pictures?”

“I got one from like a year ago. Hold on.”

Sanaa poured wine with one hand, her ears tuned fully to the sound of the phone unlocking behind her.

“I mean…just curious. I barely remember what he even looks like.”

“Sure,” Aaliyah teased.

Sanaa rolled her eyes and returned to the table. Aaliyah turned the phone screen toward her.

It was a selfie. From a year ago.

Erik was wearing a black hoodie. Shades on. Gold caps barely visible between his lips. His locs were pulled back. His expression? Blank. Controlled. You couldn’t see much. But you could see enough.

He was fine as hell.

Sanaa sipped her wine slow. Eyes on the screen. She said nothing. Just handed the phone back.

But her stomach was warm now.

And it wasn’t just the wine.

The apartment was quiet now.

Aaliyah had gone back to her room, mumbling something about watching Insecure for the tenth time while finishing off the last of the wine. Sanaa cleaned up the snack wrappers, turned the incense down to a nub, and padded barefoot back to her room.

The lights were off.

Only her bedside lamp burned low, warm against the shadows. She peeled out of her tank, tossed it in the hamper, and pulled on one of her oversized tees. The soft kind. No bra. No makeup. Just her. She slipped into bed, pulled the covers up to her waist, and lay on her back—phone in hand, scrolling through nothing. Her screen dimmed once, twice, before she finally tossed it on the pillow beside her.

But sleep didn’t come.

Her thoughts drifted backward.

Past D.C. Past Howard. Back to Oakland.

Oakland, California | Sanaa, Age 17

The house had been full that day—one of those loud, summer-afternoon cookouts that rolled over into the night. The grill smoke had already stained the curtains. Somebody’s auntie was dancing in the living room. Babies crawling. Uncles arguing dominoes in the back. Scraper bikes riding slow down the block. Frankie Beverly playing low under the chaos.

And Erik had walked in.

Fresh off the flight from Boston.

Hair bigger than before—a thick, curly fro with faded temples that sat proud and full. Gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose like always. No hoodie that time. Just a white tee clinging to his chest, chain tucked underneath.

He looked older.

Sharper.

Smarter.

He was tall already, but the way he carried himself was new. Like he knew something they didn’t.

Everyone had swarmed him.

“Boy, look at you!”

“You got big!”

“MIT? God is good!”

“Your daddy would be proud…”

Sanaa had stayed quiet, posted near the hallway wall, sipping on her soda, pretending not to stare.

But she saw it.

The flicker.

The second someone mentioned his father, something shifted behind his eyes. A quick shadow. He covered it fast with a head nod and a tight grin. Said something smooth to shift the attention, and it worked.

Later that night, the music had died down. Aaliyah was in her room running her mouth on the phone, and Sanaa had slipped out to the kitchen for a refill.

That’s when she saw him.

Erik.

Shirtless.

He was standing by the sink, back to her, muscles carved like truth. A tattoo in calligraphic or spiritual script resting between his shoulder blades. His chain glinting against his skin. 

He turned when he heard her. Calm, low-voiced.

“What’s good?”

She froze, “Just gettin’ a drink.”

He nodded once, “How you been?”

Her voice was small, “Good.”

He watched her for a moment, then looked down at the cap before speaking again.

“I’m headin’ out next month.”

She paused with her hand on the fridge handle, “Yeah?”

“Navy.”

There was something flat in the way he said it. No excitement. No pride. Just fact.

Her eyes flicked to his face, then away, “Congrats. That’s major.”

He gave a small nod, “Appreciate it.”

Silence settled between them. Not awkward—but something unsaid hung low in the room. Like she wanted to ask more but didn’t know how. Like he was used to not explaining. He finished the rest of his drink, dropped the cap in the trash, and pushed off the counter.

“Good to see you, Nae Nae”

She looked up, startled he said that nickname.

He didn’t say much. And he never said it before.

“You too.”

Then he turned and walked out—bare feet silent on the tile, body disappearing down the hall into the dark. She stood there gripping her cup, not blinking. Her heart tapping too fast against her ribs. She stared after him long after he was gone, her breath catching in her throat.

In that moment, she didn’t want to be seventeen.

She wanted to be grown.

Old enough.

Brave enough.

She wanted to kiss him.

To touch him.

To say something that would make him stop and look at her like she wasn’t just the girl always hanging in his little sister’s room.

She knew it would never happen.

But that didn’t stop the want.

Present Day

Sanaa rolled onto her side, tugging the sheet higher up her body. Her room was quiet now, the lamp still on. Her glass of mango juice untouched. She stared at the candle flame on her nightstand.

Erik.

She hadn’t thought about him like that in years. Or maybe she had. Maybe he just stayed tucked in that dusty corner of her mind reserved for old crushes and impossible daydreams. But now she was older. Twenty-two. Living with his sister. And he was probably somewhere across the world, giving all that quiet, heavy energy to some woman who actually matched him. A woman who didn’t flinch when he asked what was good. A woman who knew what to do with a man like that.

Not her.

Not Sanaa.

If he ever showed up now, she told herself, he wouldn’t look twice at her.

She was still Aaliyah’s best friend. 

Still off-limits.

She turned her head into the pillow, sighing, then cut off the lamp. But even in the dark, her mind stayed lit with that image—him in that hoodie. In those shades. In that body. And it wouldn’t be the last time she thought about him like that.

Washington, D.C. | Ronald Reagan National Airport | March 2021 | 11:08 PM  | Next Evening

The plane touched down with a hiss of tires and a subtle lurch that made the windowpanes tremble. Most of the cabin stayed asleep, neck pillows tilted, shoes off, unaware.

Erik wasn’t one of them.

He hadn’t slept once.

He sat in seat 3C, shoulders back, knees wide, eyes forward the entire flight. He didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. Didn’t even take his hoodie off.

When the plane taxied toward the gate, he finally shifted in his seat, only to reach down and secure his duffel. The bag never left his side. That was rule number one. By the time he stepped through the terminal, the airport had that late-night quiet. Not silent, but drained. Just floor polishers, two TSA agents, and a few stragglers waiting on late flights. He moved like a shadow—black hoodie over his head, drawstrings pulled just enough. A long, black duffel over one shoulder. Fitted black cargos. Heavy-soled boots. No logos. No color.

His hoodie was thick and clean, zipped three-quarters up. Underneath, a tight thermal hugged his chest. His black gloves were still tucked into his back pocket, and his locs were pulled back into a short, no-nonsense tie. Only the glint of his gold-rimmed glasses and the faintest flash of gold caps when he clenched his jaw gave any hint of shine. Otherwise, he was shadowwork. He walked with purpose, but not speed. Eyes sharp. Head on a slow swivel. He didn’t flinch, but he tracked every janitor, every motion sensor, every phone raised too long.

Hyper-vigilant.

Like something was still on his tail.

Because something always was.

Outside, Erik walked past the lines of rideshare pickups and tourists fumbling with luggage. He bypassed all that. Slipped into the lot where his rental waited—black SUV, tinted. Booked under a dummy name. Keys picked up without conversation. He threw the duffel in the back, got in the front seat, and sat for a moment with the engine off. The glow of the dash lights flickered against his skin. He didn’t move. Then he leaned over and pulled out a manila envelope. Inside: printouts of surveillance logs, satellite images, and one folded page with red markings. The names. The location where the hit was made. The theory.

Someone had leaked his location.

Still no proof.

But his instincts were screaming.

He tucked the folder away, started the engine, and pulled out slow.

He didn’t take the direct road.

He looped. Changed lanes. Cut through quiet streets in Southeast. Passed up his own turn just to double back. Every red light, he scanned both mirrors. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind the apartment building. Same walk-up Aaliyah had been in for almost a year. Erik hadn’t been here since he handed over the down payment. He parked in the back corner where the security camera didn’t reach. Killed the lights.

Then sat still again.

He could see the glow from the third-floor window.

Not Aaliyah’s room. The other one.

Someone was still awake.

He tapped his fingers against the wheel, slow and even. Erik pulled his hoodie tighter. Checked his Glock in the glove compartment, then stepped out into the night.

Boots hit pavement. Quiet. Certain.

He didn’t knock.

Just walked toward the back entrance with his key in hand, his shoulders broad and posture calm—but every cell in his body still humming like he hadn’t left Brazil at all. He was home. But only technically.

And Erik Stevens didn’t let his guard down for anyone.

Washington, D.C. | The Apartment | March 2021 | 12:12 AM

The front door clicked shut with barely a sound. Erik stood in the dim entryway, letting his eyes adjust. A hallway stretched out ahead of him—closed doors on either side, one faint lamp glowing near the living room. Quiet. Clean. Feminine touches everywhere. Shoes lined up neat by the wall. A throw blanket tossed across the sectional. Candles on the console table that smelled like something warm—vanilla, maybe brown sugar. His nose flared once, catching something sweeter underneath. Peach and incense smoke and woman.

He shook it off.

Stepped forward. Boots silent on the hardwood. He passed the kitchen, noting the empty wine glasses in the sink. The apartment felt lived-in, soft around the edges. A far cry from the dusty safehouses and cement flats he’d been moving through the past year. He didn’t linger. His room was at the end of the hall. Still untouched.  He opened the door and stepped in. It smelled like dry wood, fresh paint, and the faintest trace of cedar from a block he’d tucked in one of the drawers when he first paid for the place.

Simple layout.

A king-sized bed against the wall, dark frame, gray sheets.

One dresser.

One heavy-duty black trunk at the foot of the bed.

A freestanding wardrobe Erik had assembled himself the last time he came through.

No clutter. No photos. Just function.

The walls were bare. The blackout curtains pulled.

But he walked to the window anyway, peeled one side open, and looked out. D.C. glowed soft beneath the clouds—streetlights buzzing, cars humming past in the distance. Not home. But not foreign.

He stood there for a long second, jaw tight, letting his body slowly ease out of alert mode. It never truly stopped but it slowed, just enough to think.

Then he moved.

Unzipped the duffel.

Laid out his weapons first—one black matte Glock, two folding knives, a burner phone, a watch, a few USBs wrapped in tape. He tucked them into the locked drawer of the dresser. Then came the clothes—black cargos, black thermals, tanks, rolled socks, one soft hoodie he didn’t remember packing. He folded them into the dresser drawers with exact precision. Finally, he grabbed a fresh towel, a clean pair of black briefs, and a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap. His travel shampoo was already in the side pouch. He checked the hallway, then stepped out. The hall light buzzed faintly overhead as he turned the knob and entered the bathroom.

It was warm. Humid. Somebody had just been in here.

The softest traces of shea butter still clung to the air. The mirror was fogged around the edges. There were two bonnets hanging off the towel rack. A pink satin robe tossed over the back of the door. Three bottles lined the edge of the tub—honey almond conditioner, something labeled “Mango & Hibiscus,” and a hair detangler with a cartoon Black girl on the label.

His brow twitched but he didn’t pause. Just stepped in, locked the door, and turned the shower on hot.

Steam swallowed the room quick. Erik peeled off his hoodie, shirt, and pants, dropping them in a neat pile near the sink. He stepped under the stream. Let it rush over his skin, head tilted back, eyes closed. First came the soap—lathered into his palms, slicked over his chest, arms, shoulders, stomach. He scrubbed everywhere. Rinsed. Did it again. Couldn’t stand the smell of foreign bodies or sweat lingering on him. That was rule number two. He grabbed the shampoo, squeezed a line into his palm, and rubbed it through his locs. Took his time. Fingertips dug into his scalp slow, methodical. He rinsed twice, made sure every drop of dirt and memory of jungle heat was gone. When he was done, he stood under the water one more minute.

Let it burn. Let it clean. Let it quiet his mind.

Then he stepped out.

He dried off just enough to keep water from dripping all over the floor. Tied the towel low on his waist. His skin steamed. He left his dirty clothes in the hamper and opened the bathroom door, still toweling at his locs. Barefoot. Chest out. Arms cut and soaked. Gold glinting faint behind his damp glasses.

That’s when he heard it.

A soft laugh.

High. Sweet. Familiar.

He paused.

Turned toward the source—a cracked bedroom door halfway down the hall. A warm lamp glow spilled through the crack. He moved without sound, every step practiced.

Another giggle. Low and throaty.

He narrowed his eyes.

Didn’t move closer. Didn’t breathe too loud.

Just listened.

That wasn’t a stranger. He hadn’t heard that laugh in five years.

Erik moved—fluid and quiet—until he stood in front of the partially cracked door. The light spilling through was low and golden, lamp-warm, flickering shadows from a strand of fairy lights pinned across the top of the room. Soft music hummed under it all, something mellow with bass, the kind of track that sat deep in your chest.

He leaned in, just enough to glimpse what had stopped him.

There she was.

Sanaa.

She sat sideways on the bed, one knee tucked under her, one bare foot dangling off the side as she talked on the phone, her voice soft, animated, laughing at something unheard. She hadn’t seen him. Didn’t know he was there. The glow from her screen lit up one side of her face, warm against her cheekbones and the line of her jaw. 

That glossy, espresso-brown skin shimmered with softness, her curly hair sweeping over one shoulder. Gold hoops winked beneath the halo of her hair. A fitted mocha-colored tank hugged her figure, shoulders bare, waist snatched, soft black shorts clinging to full hips. Legs stretched long and toned, crossed loosely at the ankle.

Erik blinked, once. Jaw flexing just slightly.

Still soft-spoken. Still that unreadable gaze—though right now it was on her phone screen, smiling at whoever was on the other end. Her laugh was light, casual, like she was on FaceTime with one of her girls. He couldn’t make out the words.

Didn’t need to.

He lingered one more second. Just one.

Then backed away without a sound. Like he hadn’t been there at all.

In his room, Erik shut the door and leaned against it for a beat. Took a breath through his nose, slow. Rolled his shoulders back like he was brushing it off.

Then he moved.

Tossed the towel over the chair. Changed into a plain black tee and fitted sweats. His body still carried that edge from Brazil—coiled tight, veins raised, the fresh scars on his knuckles pulling as he flexed his hands. He could still smell her room on him—burnt sage, hair oil, something sweet and spiced. Leftover heat clinging to his skin from the shower.

He sat at the edge of the bed, and that’s when he heard it.

Footsteps again. A softer rhythm on the hardwood. Then a quiet shuffle. Fabric brushing. The soft clink of a glass. Movement out in the hallway.

Erik moved toward the door, quiet. Not all the way to open it—just to listen. He didn’t have to wonder long.

A shadow passed under the crack of light.

And then, a figure. 

She walked by without glancing his way. A casual sway to her hips, still barefoot, hoodie thrown on now over whatever she’d been wearing earlier. Phone in hand. She paused for a second in the kitchen—pouring water, maybe—then disappeared around the corner again.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just presence.

Erik waited a beat. Then turned back inside.

Didn’t think too hard about it.

But he noticed.

The apartment door creaked open just past six.

Aaliyah stumbled in first, balancing her messenger bag on one shoulder and a leftover lunch container in her hand. Behind her, Sanaa stepped through the threshold with her own bags, her jet black curls pulled up in a messy puff that had started out cute but now sagged with the weight of the day. She kicked off her shoes with a sigh that emptied her whole chest.

“Remind me why I thought back-to-back labs and a 300-level seminar on a Friday was a good idea?” Sanaa dropped her tote bag by the entryway.

“You were trying to prove you could do it all,” Aaliyah replied, tossing her keys on the counter, “Superwoman. Remember?”

Sanaa rolled her eyes, dragging her feet toward the kitchen.

They stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder in front of the open fridge, both blinking into the fluorescent light as if expecting a miracle to reveal itself between a bottle of oat milk and a box of leftovers neither of them wanted.

“I say we order,” Sanaa offered.

“I second that motion.” Aaliyah shut the fridge, “I gotta text Erik. He said he was coming.”

Sanaa’s head tilted, “So, he is staying?”

“He should already be here.” Aaliyah checked her phone, “His flight got in last night. Oh, he said he went to the gym.”

A small knot of nerves stirred low in Sanaa’s belly. 

“Let me freshen up,” Sanaa said, suddenly aware of how sweaty her thighs felt, “I feel gross.”

“Same,” Aaliyah said, “I’ll find something to order while you shower.”

Sanaa darted to the hallway bathroom, stripped quickly, and stood under the spray longer than she should’ve. She used her good body wash. The one with the vanilla undertones and that little citrus kick that made her skin feel expensive. Afterward, she dried off, slipped on a cropped tee and a pair of ribbed shorts that hugged her hips. She didn’t think twice about it.

Until she heard his voice.

It was low. A deep baritone in the kitchen—steadier now than it used to be. Still quiet, but firm. She caught the soft cadence of Aaliyah replying, then a laugh. Sanaa froze at the edge of the hallway. She heard the hum of the fridge door, the clink of a glass being set down.

Then she turned the corner and saw him.

Erik.

Leaning against the kitchen island, arm flexed on the counter. Hair longer now, locs thick and dark, pulled into a half-tied bun that showed off the slope of his jaw. He wore a black athletic tee, sleeves hugging the round of his biceps, the fabric darkened with sweat at the collarbone and leaving nothing to the imagination. Not even the keloid scars meticulously placed. Up and down his arms. Visible through his sweat-drenched shirt. Joggers hung low on his hips, drawstring loose, his legs parted slightly as he reached for a bottle of water. His skin was deeper now. Like it had soaked in sun and held onto it. And he had filled out. Solid chest. Wide back. Forearms marked with faint veins and scars Sanaa couldn’t stop admiring from where she stood. Inked. 

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

Sanaa’s breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied her with that same unreadable expression from when they were younger. No smile. No reaction. Just the weight of his gaze flicking from her face down the length of her and back up again. She wished she had put on a bra. Or longer shorts. Or anything that didn’t make her feel like her nipples were pointing out directions.

Aaliyah noticed the silence and broke it with a grin, “E, you remember Bri, right?”