Obligated

Chiana

I leaned back in my leather office chair, stretching my legs under my desk as I scrolled aimlessly through my phone. The numbers and spreadsheets on my dual monitors had already started blurring together, my brain shutting down for the day even though I technically had a few minutes left on the clock.

The last client of the day had left damn near forty minutes ago, leaving me with nothing but silence, the distant hum of traffic outside my window, and the soft tick of the clock mounted on the wall. I sighed, tossing my phone onto the desk and rubbing my temples. This was my life. Routine. Orderly. Predictable. And lonely as hell.

I ran a successful private accounting business out of a sleek, downtown Baton Rouge office—nothing fancy, just professional enough to let people know I wasn't here to play. My clientele ranged from small business owners to rich folks looking to keep their money out of Uncle Sam's hands, and I had built my reputation on being discreet and efficient. I worked, I went home, and on occasion, I let Amina, my best friend, drag me out for drinks when she was actually in town.

That was it. That was me. And for the most part, I was fine with it. Until the moments like this, when the silence stretched too long, and I had nothing to do but sit in my thoughts. I tapped my nails against the glass surface of my desk, debating on packing up early when my phone buzzed, the name flashing across the screen pulling a small smirk from me.

Amina: Bitch, you better not still be at work.

I shook my head, swiping to reply.

Me: Where else would I be?

Her response was immediate.

Amina: Literally anywhere else. Happy Hour? My flight lands in 20.

I rolled my eyes but grinned. Amina knew I wasn't a last-minute, pop-up type of girl, but that never stopped her from trying.

Me: I'm not going to happy hour. It's Tuesday.

Amina: AND?

Before I could respond, my office phone rang, cutting into our conversation. My brows pulled together. I wasn't expecting any more clients today. I hesitated before answering, my voice smooth and professional. " Alexander."

A deep voice filled the line, the kind that carried weight even through a phone. "Miss Alexander,"

the man greeted, voice slow and Southern, but firm, like he wasn't the type to repeat himself. "I heard you're the best at what you do."

My grip on the receiver tightened. Something about his tone sent a ripple of unease down my spine. I'd dealt with all kinds of clients—some shadier than others—but my gut was warning me that this wasn't just another businessman looking to straighten out his accounts. "I appreciate that,"

I said carefully. "Who am I speaking with?"

A pause. Then— "You can call me Noles."

I frowned. The name didn't ring any bells, but the way he said it made me feel like it should.

"Well, Noles, I'm actually finished for the day,"

I said smoothly, hoping to brush him off. "But if you're interested in my services, you're welcome to schedule a consultation through my online portal ."

Another pause. Then a low chuckle. "Yeah... see, I don't think I got time for all that. I need someone with your expertise, and no disrespect, I’m not filling out no online portal."

I sat up a little straighter. "And what exactly do you need help with?"

The line was quiet for a beat too long. Then he exhaled, the sound like he was weighing his words. "Let's just say... I need to make some numbers move the right way. Make sure everything looks... clean."

My stomach tightened. That was all I needed to hear. "I don't do that kind of work,"

I said firmly, already reaching for the disconnect button, but before I could press it, his voice came back, calm and unbothered. "Think about it. We'll be in touch."

The line went dead. I stared at the phone for a long moment, my fingers still curled around the receiver, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

I'd had my fair share of clients trying to play slick—business owners fudging expenses, trust fund babies looking to dodge taxes—but this? This was different. That man, Noles, wasn't asking for a loophole or a little financial gymnastics. He wanted his money cleaned. And that meant one thing. He was dirt, and I wanted no parts of it. I exhaled sharply, setting the phone down and shaking my head. Hell no. I wasn't about to get tangled up in something that could put my entire career—hell, my life—at risk.

I pushed away from my desk, suddenly feeling drained. I needed to go home, pour a glass of wine, and pretend this conversation never happened. The drive home was quiet, but my mind was loud. I rolled down my window, letting the warm Madene, Louisiana night air slip in, thick with the scent of magnolias and the distant brine of the bayou. The hum of cicadas blended with the distant music floating from some hole-in-the-wall bar, the kind of place where old men sipped whiskey and played cards until the early morning. This was home the only place I'd ever known, where history was buried under moss-covered oak trees, where the air carried whispers of the past like a secret only the land understood.

I should've been at peace. But that phone call stuck to me like the humidity in the air, heavy and suffocating. By the time I pulled into the parking lot of my condo, I felt drained, like my body was present, but my mind was stuck somewhere in between what the hell and how do I make this go away?

Inside, I locked the door behind me, kicked off my heels, and let out a slow breath. My place was my sanctuary, modern but warm, filled with rich earth tones, plush rugs, and soft lighting. It smelled like vanilla and sandalwood, the kind of scent that made a house feel like home. I needed to unwind. Stripping out of my work clothes, I ran a hot bath, pouring in my favorite vanilla-scented bubbles until the water was frothy and thick. Sinking into the tub, I let my head rest against the cool porcelain, eyes slipping closed as the warmth worked out the tension in my shoulders.

This was my routine. Work. Home. Wine. A movie or some old reruns. I didn’t do chaos. I didn’t do drama. My parents had instilled that in me from early on. You get an education. A good job. You take care of yourself and don’t wait on nobody to save you. My parents, Terry and Calisa, worked regular jobs—no degrees, just hustle. That’s why they pushed me so hard. I was their second chance. Their everything. And they never got to see how far I came. A drunk driver ended all that my freshman year of college. It used to hurt so bad I couldn’t breathe. Now... I just try to believe they’re still watching me, proud of the life I made from the pieces they left behind.

Romantically? That chapter had been closed. Antonio Buffurd was my high school sweetheart. Quarterback. Star. All the girls wanted him—but he only wanted me. At least back then. By our junior year of college, things shifted. Antonio decided to go pro, and I was still deep in my grief, barely piecing myself together. Long distance didn’t last. One day he told me he couldn’t keep playing with my heart while living his new lifestyle. Called himself “freeing me.”

That “freedom”

nearly broke me. After I clawed my way out of that darkness, I swore I’d never let myself fall like that again. And I haven’t. My life now is calm, quiet... maybe too quiet. Peaceful, but alone.

By the time I was out, wrapped in a plush robe with my silk bonnet on, I had a glass of red wine in one hand and the remote in the other, flipping through movies. Something light. Something easy. An hour in, my body was relaxed, my mind finally drifting, when my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen, expecting Amina, but instead, a notification popped up at the top.

New Email: Juste St. Jean.

The name sent a jolt through me, tightening my chest. I sat up, heart knocking against my ribs as I unlocked my phone. The email was short. Direct. Attached was a contract. I clicked it open, my eyes scanning over the terms, my stomach twisting with every line. It was exactly what I thought it was—an offer. They wanted me to handle their money, make their numbers look right. And from the language in the email, this wasn't a request. The weight of it settled in my chest like a brick.

St. Jean. The call from earlier rushed back like a flood, and I gripped the stem of my wine glass tighter. This wasn't just some random opportunity. This was calculated. Intentional. The St. Jean family wasn't just some shadowy name whispered in the streets. They were the Black Mob of Louisiana, a dynasty built on power, fear, and blood money. I had heard the names of the brothers Jules and Juste, Noles must’ve been their baby brother born some years after them. Jules, Juste, and Noles weren't just some rich men with connections. They were royalty in a kingdom where loyalty was currency, and betrayal was a death sentence.

And now, they had chosen me. Not as a partner. As their next pawn. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart thudding heavy in my chest. I could've ignored the email—pretended I never saw it. But from the whispers, I knew men like the St. Jeans didn't take silence as an answer. I sat there for a minute, staring at the screen while the cursor blinked, my mind racing. Finally, I started typing.

Mr. St. Jean,

Thank you for reaching out, but I'm not interested in providing the services you're requesting. I'm sure there are other professionals who would be better suited for your needs.

Best regards,

Alexander

I read over the message twice before hitting send. My stomach clenched the second it left my outbox, but I stood on it. I didn't care who they were or how much money they were offering—some bags just weren't worth carrying. I sat back on the couch, sipping my wine slower now, trying to convince myself that was the end of it. They'd move on. Find somebody else. But I knew better. The St. Jeans didn't ask twice—they just took.

_

By the next morning, Louisiana's sun stretched wide across the sky, heat pressing down thick even though it was barely past eight. I drove with my windows cracked, letting the warm breeze roll in as I made my way through the city. The air smelled like fresh rain and earth, a little salt drifting in from the bayou. When I made it to my office, the sun had climbed higher, making the pavement shimmer. I unlocked the glass door, the little gold plaque reading Alexander Financial Solutions glinting under the sunlight. The second I flipped the sign to Open, a sleek black Mercedes SUV rolled up smooth and silent, like a shadow moving in broad daylight.

My stomach clenched. I already knew who it was. The tag read St. Jean. The St. Jeans moved with precision—never too early, never too late. Always right on time, always making an entrance. The doors opened, and three men stepped out, all dressed in black suits so sharp they looked like they'd been stitched straight onto their bodies. My breath caught. They didn't just look important. They moved like it. Like power clung to them, like they were used to people making way when they stepped into a room.

The first one out looked younger , broad-shouldered and built like he lifted bodies and weights in equal measure. His suit barely contained the muscle underneath, and when he adjusted his cuff links, I caught the flash of a heavy gold watch. His eyes swept the street before landing on my office door with a kind of quiet authority, like he was already planning what would happen next. The second man followed, moving a little looser but still dangerous. He had a wolfish grin on his face, the kind that said he liked this part of the job. His locs were pulled back from his sharp-lined face, and a thin gold chain peeked out from under his jacket.

Then the last man stepped out, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click. Juste. I knew it was him by the low mug he wore on his face and the way he looked in between the other two men. And he was fine as hell. Taller than the others, his suit fit like it was made for only him—jet black, crisp, expensive as hell. The kind of man who knew money, power, and exactly how to use both. His skin was a rich, peanut butter smooth, and flawless, like it soaked up nothing but good genes and luxury.

His jawline was razor-sharp, lips full, and his dark eyes locked on me the second he stepped onto the sidewalk. I damn near forgot to breathe. Juste St. Jean wasn't just somebody—he was him. Even with the heat pressing down from the Louisiana sun, a chill ran through me. He walked with that slow, deliberate confidence—the kind that came from knowing he never had to raise his voice or repeat himself. His energy sucked all the oxygen out of the street, like the world had no choice but to pause when he moved. And right now, he was moving straight toward me.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay rooted in place as the three of them crossed the pavement like the goddamn world belonged to them. One of the younger ones reached the door first, pulling it open without hesitation. "Ladies first,"

he said with a smirk, gesturing for Juste to enter. Juste stepped inside without a word, his eyes flicking over the space like he already owned it. The other two men followed, shutting the door behind them with an easy flick of his wrist. Suddenly, my office—my safe space—felt a whole lot smaller.

I straightened my spine, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. "I already told you—"

Juste held up a hand, and just like that, I shut up. Not because I was scared, but because something about him commanded it. "I'm not here to argue with you, Miss Alexander."

His voice was smooth, deep, with that slight Louisiana drawl that made everything sound like a slow, deliberate threat. "I'm here to offer you an opportunity. This Noles and Pierre wit me."

He said point them out.

I folded my arms, standing firm even though my heart was thudding. "I already declined."

He studied me for a long moment, then took a step closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that I could smell the faint trace of expensive cologne—something dark and rich. "You didn't decline,"

he murmured. "You sent an email."

He looked me up and down. The way he said it, like my response hadn't even been real. Like it was just a formality he was now correcting in person.

I tilted my chin up, refusing to let him intimidate me. "Same thing."

He smiled, slow and knowing. "Nah,"

he said. "Not with me, it ain't."

My breath hitched. Pierre chuckled under his breath, and Noles shifted slightly, his expression unreadable.

Juste reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and placed it on my desk. "Contract's right here,"

he said, tapping the paper with two fingers. "Everything you need to know. Terms, compensation, non-disclosure. You read it, you sign it, you walk away a wealthier woman."

I stared at it like it might catch fire. "I don't want it."

Juste sighed like I was being difficult for no reason, then leaned in slightly. "This ain't about what you want, baeeby,"

he said, voice dropping lower. "It's about what you gon' do."

His words sent a shiver down my spine, but I masked it quick. "I have a business. A real one. I don't need—"

"Business is business,"

Juste cut in smoothly. "You work numbers. We got numbers that need to be worked."

I exhaled sharply, glancing at the contract, then back at him. "And what happens if I still say no?"

For the first time, Juste smiled—a slow, knowing thing that sent my stomach flipping. "Then we gotta have another conversation,"

he said. "And trust me, you'd rather have this one."

The message was clear. This was their gentle approach. I clenched my jaw, my pulse hammering, but I didn't let the fear show. I didn't care how smooth Juste St. Jean tried to make this seem—how polite, how businesslike—this wasn't a negotiation. This was a threat. And I wasn't the type to fold. I straightened my spine, my expression calm and unmoving. "No, thank you,"

I said, my voice firm as I met Juste's dark gaze head-on. His eyes didn't shift. Didn't flicker. Steady. Calculated. But I held my own.

A slow smirk spread across his lips, lazy and full of something unreadable. He wasn't used to hearing no. Not from women, not from business associates, and definitely not from people he had already decided belonged to him. His silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, but I didn't flinch. I wasn't about to let him see even a crack in my resolve. "Hm,"

was all he said, a deep, quiet sound from his chest before he turned away, walking toward the door with an unbothered grace that sent a chill through me. Pierre followed, but not before giving me a slow, lingering once-over, like he was assessing me, figuring out if I was bold or just stupid. Noles, the last one to move, paused just slightly, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

Then, right at the door, Juste glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his tone carrying something else now—something that made my stomach clench. "I'll be seeing you, Ms. Alexander."

The way he said it wasn't a guess. It was a promise. The door shut behind them, the quiet slamming into me like a wall. I exhaled sharply, my hands gripping the edge of my desk as I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. They were gone. For now. But deep down, I already knew—I hadn't seen the last of Juste St. Jean. Not by a long shot.

=

The rest of the day moved fast, but I barely registered any of it. I met with a few of my regular clients—small business owners, independent contractors, people with real money and real tax concerns—but their voices blurred together, their paperwork a mindless shuffle of numbers and figures I could calculate in my sleep. I had built my world around predictability—numbers that made sense, clients who followed the rules, an existence that had nothing to do with the kind of men who showed up in black trucks with contracts that weren't really offers. But today? Today had thrown everything off balance. I caught myself checking the street through my office window every so often, scanning for that familiar black SUV, half-expecting Juste to walk back in like my refusal didn't matter. Hell, maybe it didn't.

By the time I locked up for the night, the Louisiana sky had darkened to a deep, bruised purple, the air thick and humid, carrying the scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet. The city was still awake, though— street vendors pushing carts of steaming beignets and fresh pralines, the sound of conversation and laughter bouncing off brick buildings. I exhaled, rolling my shoulders as I stepped onto the sidewalk, forcing myself to shake off the weight of the day. This was home. My home. And I wasn't about to let Juste St. Jean or his family make me feel like a guest in my own damn life.

When I pulled into my condo parking lot, my body was exhausted, but my mind was still racing. I went through my usual routine—locking the door behind me, kicking off my heels, dropping my bag on the kitchen counter. I poured myself a glass of wine, letting the rich red swirl in my glass before taking a slow sip.

Normally, this was the part of my day I looked forward to. A hot bath, a good movie, and silence. But tonight, silence felt different. It felt... watched. I shook my head, pushing the paranoia aside. You're tripping, Chi. I'd dozed off sometime between finishing my wine and flipping through old episodes of Living Single. The last thing I remembered was sinking into my pillows, body heavy with exhaustion. But how I went to sleep was not how I woke up.

A slow, feather-light touch trailed across my cheek, down the curve of my jaw, and around my ear, making me stir. My lashes fluttered, my body shifting against the sheets as consciousness crept in. Then I felt it. A presence. My eyes snapped open, and there he was. Juste St. Jean. Sitting at the edge of my bed like he belonged there, his dark eyes locked on me, one hand still tracing the curve of my face.

I sucked in a breath so sharp it felt like I'd been drowning. My body lurched upright, heart beating so wild I swore he could hear it. I scrambled back against the headboard, the sheet clutched in my fists like it could protect me. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. How the hell did he even get in here? "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

I hissed, pulling the sheets up around me.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, smooth and calm, like this was casual. Like this was his bed. His room. His moment. "Told you I'd be seeing you,"

he murmured, lips curving into that slow-ass smirk that sent my stomach tumbling. His voice was dark like molasses—too familiar, too confident. But laced with something colder. Possessive. Dangerous. My mind raced, trying to piece this shit together. My alarm didn’t go off. Did I even lock the front door? Had I heard anything? No. Nothing. I’d been asleep. Dead to the world. Vulnerable.

My breath hitched when I saw movement across the room. My closet doors were open—and two men, Noles and Pierre, were inside. Rifling through my shit like they were packing for vacation. Hangers clattered against each other, fabric flying into duffels with no care, no shame. What the fuck?! I tried to move. Tried to swing my legs over the bed, heart lodged in my throat—but Juste’s hand shot out and caught my wrist. Firm. Not aggressive. But strong enough to remind me I wasn’t calling the shots. "You ready to sign that contract, baeeby?"

His voice was almost teasing, like he was enjoying this shit. My lips parted to curse his ass out, but then I caught something in his expression. His gaze dropped—just for a second—lingering on my chest. I glanced down. Shit. The thin satin pajama shirt I was wearing did nothing to hide the fact that my nipples were hard, pressing against the fabric like they had a mind of their own. The matching shorts barely covered anything, leaving my thick thighs exposed. And Juste noticed.

His dark eyes dragged back up to mine, slow and deliberate, filled with something heated. Lust. I hugged myself, trying to ignore the way my skin tingled under his gaze. "I told your ass I wasn't signing that damn contract,"

I snapped, my voice sharper than I felt. His eyes flicked back to mine, the hunger still there, still burning. "Hm."

That was all he said before he reached forward, grabbing me like I weighed nothing, and tossed me over his shoulder. I gasped, my world flipping upside down as my stomach pressed against his broad, solid shoulder. "What the fuck?!"

I shrieked, my fists pounding against his back. "Put me the fuck down!"

"Damn, Just,"

Noles chuckled from across the room. "She thicker den she look."

I twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of him, but before I could, Juste's palm came down on my ass in a firm squeeze. I yelped, going still for half a second before thrashing even harder. "Noles, shut da fuck up,"

Juste muttered, gripping my thigh to hold me steady. "Get the rest of her shit and bring y'all ass on."

What the fuck was happening? This nigga was literally kidnapping me. I started bucking, squirming, trying to twist out of his grip. "Put me the fuck down!"

Juste chuckled—low and deep, like I was doing nothing but entertaining him. Then he gave my ass another squeeze, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, sending an unwanted jolt of heat straight through me. I yelped, a mix of rage and something else I refused to acknowledge flooding my system. "Be still,"

Juste murmured, carrying me through my condo like I was weightless. "Unless you wanna end up on this damn flo, neck broke."

The casual way he said it, like it wasn't even a threat, made my body stiffen. I sucked in a breath, my heart pounding so damn hard I could feel it in my throat. This wasn't a game. This was real. The humid Louisiana night wrapped around me as Juste carried me out of my damn condo like I was some kind of possession instead of a whole grown-ass woman with her own life. The cicadas hummed loud in the distance, and the heavy scent of jasmine and rain clung to the air, but none of that mattered. Not when this man was kidnapping me in broad-ass night.

The black SUV was parked right out front, sleek and menacing, its tinted windows swallowing up the glow from the streetlights. The second we got to the curb, Juste shifted me in his grip like I weighed nothing, yanked open the back door, and pushed me inside. I barely caught myself, palms hitting the cool leather seats as I twisted around, eyes blazing. "This some—"

Juste slid in right next to me, cutting me off, his movements slow and controlled, like I wasn't flailing and fuming beside him.

I didn't hesitate. I swung. My fist connected with his shoulder first, but he barely reacted. So I hit him again. And again. Closed fists, open palms, whatever I could land. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

I screamed, my hands flying. "You out your damn mind?!"

Juste let me get a few hits in, like he was amused, his jaw tight but his body unmoving. Then, fast as hell, he reached out, his fingers locking around both my wrists, squeezing just tight enough to make me stop.

I grunted, twisting, but his grip was like steel. My chest heaved, my breath ragged, but he was still calm. Too calm. Like I hadn't just been swinging on him with everything I had in me. "Done?"

he murmured, his deep voice a slow, lazy drawl. I yanked at my wrists. "Let me go."

He didn't. Just watched me, his grip still firm but not painful. "I ain't lettin' you go nowhere."

I gritted my teeth, yanking again, but it was useless. I wasn't weak, but Juste was strong as hell, his hold solid like he could keep me here if he wanted to. "Let. Me. Go,"

I seethed, my eyes locked on his. For the first time, his calm cracked just a little. His lips twitched like he was fighting a smirk, but his dark gaze sharpened, something flickering behind it. "You hit me again,"

he said, his voice low, dangerous, "and I promise you, you ain't gon' like what happen next."

A shiver ran through me, not from fear, but from the way his voice dropped when he said it. Like he meant every word. Like he had no problem proving it.

My breathing slowed, my body still tense, but I knew pushing any further wasn't gonna do shit. For now. Instead, I glared at him, my lips parting to curse him the fuck out, but before I could— Pierre and Noles climbed into the front seats, Noles sliding behind the wheel with ease. “You don't wanna knock her ass out?"

Pierre mused, looking at me in the rearview mirror. "You didn’ say she was a fighter , Juste."

"Yeah,"

Juste murmured, still holding my wrists, his gaze not moving from mine. "I just found out She is."

I narrowed my eyes. "Where the hell are you taking me?"

Juste finally let me go, but only after giving my wrists one last squeeze before releasing me completely. "Home,"

he said simply, leaning back against the seat like he didn't just say some crazy shit. My stomach twisted. "I am home."

I cocked my head to the side. "Nah,"

he said, looking out the window as Noles pulled away from the curb, the streetlights flashing over his face. "You was home."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as my brain scrambled for a way out of this. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. But as the city lights blurred past, my condo fading into the distance, I realized something. I wasn't in control anymore. I swear they put something in the damn air vents. One minute, I was wide awake, fuming, plotting my escape. The next? My head felt heavy, my limbs weak, and my eyelids refused to stay open. I fought against the drowsiness creeping in, but whatever it was—it won.

When I finally blinked myself awake, the soft rumble of tires over gravel filled my ears, and my vision blurred as I sat up, disoriented. My body was sluggish, like I had been knocked out for hours, but my heart punched against my ribs as I realized we were slowing down. The SUV slowed, rolling past an iron gate that groaned as it opened, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with looming cypress and swamp trees, their tangled roots half-submerged in dark water. The Spanish moss hanging low added an eerie, almost mythical feel.

And then, the house came into view. No—not a house. A damn estate. A sprawling, home sat at the end of the driveway, its dark brick exterior almost blending into the night. Huge arched windows reflected the moonlight, and warm, golden glows peeked through the cracks in the curtains. The porch wrapped around the front, wide and homey, with towering columns that made it look like some old-money Louisiana plantation house. The SUV rolled to a stop, and before I could get my bearings, the back door swung open.

I barely had time to react before his large hand wrapped around my arm, his grip firm. "Let's go."

I snatched my arm back, or at least tried to. His hold barely budged, his strength unmatched against my resistance. "Get your damn hands off me! I can walk!"

I snapped, twisting my wrist, my body tensing with every failed attempt to free myself. Juste didn't loosen his grip. Didn't react—not in the way I expected. He just watched me with that same calm, unreadable expression, like he was waiting for me to tire myself out.

Noles, walking beside us, chuckled, shaking his head. "Baeeby girl gon' wear ha fuckin' self out wit all dat fightin',"

he mused, his deep voice laced with amusement. I hated how casual they were about this. Like kidnapping me was just another day for them. Like this was just business. "Fuck both of y'all,"

I shot back, still trying to pry my arm free. Pierre snorted from up ahead, tossing a duffel bag over his shoulder. "Mutha fucka crazy"

I couldn’t get another word out before he grabbed me again—quicker this time, his grip tightening as he pulled me from the truck. "You keep runnin' ya mouth like you got a choice,"

Juste muttered, dragging me toward the house. The doors opened and we entered the house. My stomach twisted as the doors slammed shut behind us. The inside was just as lavish as I expected—dark hardwood floors, high-ass ceilings, expensive-ass furniture. A grand chandelier hung above the foyer, casting soft light across the space, and the air smelled like rich mahogany and a hint of Juste's damn cologne.

I didn't get to take in too much. Juste was still pulling me, leading me up a wide staircase lined with intricate iron railings, my bare feet barely keeping up with his long strides. "Damn can you stop dragging me like a rag doll ?"

I demanded, trying to twist out of his grip. "Bring ya' ass on then ,"

was all he said. We reached the second floor, then a hallway that stretched longer than I expected, doors lining both sides. He stopped at one near the end, pushing it open before yanking me inside.

I stumbled forward, catching myself before I fell. When I turned around, my eyes darted over the space. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle, covered in white sheets so crisp they looked untouched, and a duvet. A flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall across from it, and to the left, a conjoined bathroom with the door slightly ajar. The room was clean, simple, almost too comfortable considering the circumstances. I spun around, my chest rising and falling with my heavy breaths. "You expect me to stay here?"

Juste leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me like he was studying me. "Yeah,"

he said simply. "You'll be comfortable."

My eyes narrowed. "Comfortable?"

I let out a humorless laugh, crossing my arms. "You outside your damn mind. Let me go, Juste. This ain't gon' end the way you think it is."

He pushed off the doorframe, closing the space between us. I backed up instinctively, but he kept coming, slow and deliberate, until I felt the cool wood of the dresser press against my lower back. "Oh yeah?"

Juste's voice was smooth, low, filled with quiet amusement as he reached out, his fingers brushing against my temple before sliding down, gently moving my braids out of my face.

My breath slowed, catching in the back of my throat. Not from fear. From him. From the way his touch lingered, slow and deliberate, like he had every right to be this close to me. Like he knew me well enough to be in my space . "I gave you a chance to sign the contract,"

he murmured, his tone casual, almost lazy, but there was something dangerous beneath it. Something final. "You ain't wanna do it dat way."

His thumb dragged across my bottom lip, slow and intentional, like he was testing something. My stomach flipped. I should've jerked away, should've slapped his damn hand off me, should've cursed him the fuck out. But for a split second—just a split second—I froze.

His eyes held mine, deep and knowing, his thumb still resting against my lip like he was daring me to bite him. "So now,"

he continued, voice dropping even lower, "we doing it my way."

His scent wrapped around me. It settled deep in my senses, making my thoughts blur for half a second too long. I swallowed hard, forcing my body to move, forcing my gaze to stay locked on his. I refused to let him think he had me. Refused to let him see what that small, traitorous part of me was feeling. "You really think I care about all of that, huh?"

My voice came out steady, but my heart was slamming against my ribs.

Juste smirked, his thumb pressing just a little firmer against my lip before he let his hand drop. "Baeeby ,"

he drawled, stepping even closer, so close that the heat from his body brushed against mine, "Respectfully I don't give a fuck what you care about ."

I clenched my jaw, refusing to break eye contact. "Fuck you."

He chuckled, deep and slow, like I was amusing him. "Not yet,"

he murmured, tilting his head slightly, studying me. "But keep talkin' like that, and ima put so much dick in your back, you gon wish you never said dat."

My breath caught in my throat. I hated the way his words sent heat curling low in my stomach. Hated the way his confidence pressed into me, thick and undeniable, like he knew what he was doing to me. Like he felt it, too.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my pulse racing, my fists clenched, and my mind battling more than just a little bit .