Prime nodded. “I’ll walk you up.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m walking you up.”
Too tired to argue, I got out. Yusef climbed out slowly, still looking between us with that worried expression.
We rode the elevator in silence. When we reached my floor, I unlocked my door and Yusef went straight to his room without a word.
I turned to face Prime. “Thank you. Really.”
“You gonna be okay?”
“I always am.”
He studied my face for a long moment. “That’s not what I asked.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
He reached out, his thumb brushing away a tear I’d missed on my cheek. The touch was gentle, almost reverent.
“Get some rest, Goddess,” he said softly. “I’ll check on you later.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know. But I’m going to anyway.”
And then he was gone, leaving me standing in my doorway, my heart doing things I absolutely could not afford it to do.
13
PRIME
Rather than go to my penthouse last night, I slept at my beach house about an hour outside the city. After dealing with that lame-ass nigga in prison, I needed to be surrounded by nature. Needed distance from the chaos.
My beach house was just as bare as my penthouse—brand new, barely furnished. But this was my sanctuary. A place I’d worked hard for. Killed for. A piece of peace that was mine alone.
I laid on my back, listening to the ocean crash against the sand while my thoughts kept circling back to Zahara. I needed to get her out of my head. Nothing could happen between us. She had too much baggage, and so did I. Besides, she was just a job Rashid had given me. A favor. And after this was done, I was cutting ties with any more of his requests.
I had love and respect for Brother Rashid—he’d molded me into who I was today. But it had cost me. Cost me a lot.
He’d turned me into a weapon. A killing machine. And now I wasn’t sure if I even knew how to be anything else. Wasn’t sure if I could love, or if that part of me had been carved out somewhere between thirteen and twenty.
Once Rashid took me under his wing, he had me handle things inside. Men that needed to be killed. Prisoners thatneeded to be extorted. Problems that needed solving. Within two years, I’d shot up over a foot, packed on muscle, learned how to move with precision. I could take down men twice my age because I was quick, calculated, efficient.
But now? Now I wanted to slow down. Figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with a life that wasn’t built on violence.
I looked around my large bedroom, my eyes landing on my first acoustic guitar propped in the corner. It had been a gift from my time inside. There was a music therapy program—if you signed up, it counted toward your therapy requirements. I’d attended faithfully every week, mostly because it got me out of my cell and away from the constant noise.
The therapist who ran it, Nala Heart, had given me that guitar. Taught me how to read music. Showed me that my hands could create something other than death.
In the closet next to the guitar were several guns. A Glock 19. A SIG Sauer. A Beretta. All cleaned, maintained, ready.
The juxtaposition wasn’t lost on me. Music and murder. Creation and destruction. The two sides of what prison had made me.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Rashid’s name flashed across the screen.
I answered. “Yeah.”
