Fuck, she knows how to get under my skin. Knows what language to use, what questions to ask, what image will crawl inside my head and stay there.
Depends. Is this a silent surrender night?
No, not after the day I’ve had.
My smile dies, cold and instant, like a switch being flipped. My pulse spikes, but not from lust. It’s something different.
Protectiveness.
What happened?
I don’t ask. Not yet. That question comes later.
We’ll have any kind of night you want. Your choice.
I need you to make me feel safe tonight.
Something cracks open inside me. Her need cuts sharper than any scream.
What happened to her?
Someone made her feel unsafe, and that isn’t fucking acceptable. Not for her. Not ever.
You’re always safe in my arms, and you’re going to see that tonight.
I can’t wait to have your arms around me.
See you soon, Babygirl.
Her trust pulls harder than adrenaline, harder than bloodlust. It consumes everything in me.
And whoever rattled her sense of safety will pay for it. They’ll never get near her again.
I raise the gun, breathe in, then out. My last shot is clean, sharp, surgical. Dead center.
Laurette needs safety.
She’ll get my devotion and protection. Also my worship and ownership.
She’ll getme.
I swing by the florist after the range, grabbing a bundle of deep burgundy roses. Their dark velvet petals are nearly black, sin pressed into bloom. Fitting.
Next stop is the bakery. I pick up a box of her favorite pastries from the best bakery in New Orleans. Croissants. Danishes. Something glazed and sticky. Sweet things for my sweet girl.
At home, I reach for a pen and scrawl a note in my best handwriting:
For my sweet babygirl.
—B
I tuck the note inside the bakery box and head to the bathroom. The shower’s quick. Hot water pounding down, washing off the gunpowder and the tension that’s been building for days. I dry off and dress in jeans and a black tee.
Back in the living room, I flick on the TV. Something mindless, violent, and loud. But I don’t hear a damn word. My body’s still, but my mind isn’t. Every minute stretches, strung tightly with the promise of her.
I watch the clock more than the screen, counting down.
It’s go-time.
