TRUTH
The house was too quiet.
I checked my phone again.
No calls. No texts. Nothing.
The screen was bright in the darkness, mocking me with its emptiness. I’d checked it seventeen times in the last hour. Maybe more. I’d lost count.
My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a band around my ribs and was pulling it tighter with every breath. The pregnancy hormones weren’t helping—everything felt amplified, heightened, like my body was betraying me by making the fear worse.
I replayed the kiss on Delphine’s porch over and over in my mind.
The way Amai had looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
The way he’d kissed me—desperate, claiming, promising.
I’ll see you soon.
That’s what he’d said.
But what if he didn’t come back?
What if something happened at that warehouse?
What if Victor—
A sharp pain shot through my stomach, sudden and vicious, and I gasped, my hand flying to my belly.
I sank onto the couch, breathing through it, trying to stay calm.
It’s just stress. Just anxiety. The babies are fine.
The pain radiated outward, a dull ache that made my breath hitch, and I pressed both hands against my stomach, willing it to pass.
“Please be okay,” I whispered. “Please.”
The pain eased after a moment, fading to a dull throb, and I exhaled slowly, my heart still racing.
I checked my phone again.
Still nothing.
The waiting was suffocating.
Every second felt like drowning.
I stood and paced again, my hands trembling, my mind spiraling.
What if he was hurt?
What if he was bleeding out somewhere, and I was just sitting here waiting like an idiot?
What if—
A knock on the door.
My heart stopped.
I froze in the middle of the living room, staring at the door like it might disappear if I blinked.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
I moved.
My legs carried me across the room, my hand reaching for the deadbolt, my breath caught in my throat.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Amai.
He was wearing different clothes from earlier—black jeans, black shirt—but they were disheveled now, dusty, torn in places. There was dried blood on his shirt, dark stains that looked almost black in the dim porch light.
His eyes were dark, intense, dangerous.
But when he saw me, something softened.
The predator became a man.
I didn’t hesitate.
I launched myself at him, my arms wrapping around his neck, my mouth crashing against his.
He caught me, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me against him, and I kissed him like I was drowning and he was air.
I was the aggressor this time.
I was the one who couldn’t wait, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think about anything except the fact that he was alive.
He was here.
He came back.
I pulled at his shirt, my fingers fumbling with the buttons, and when they didn’t come fast enough, I yanked hard. Buttons scattered across the porch, pinging against the wood, and I didn’t care.
I needed him.
Needed to feel his skin, his heartbeat, the proof that he was real.
Amai’s hands moved to my dress, pulling it up, his fingers rough and urgent against my thighs. I gasped into his mouth.
He walked us backward into the house, his mouth never leaving mine, and then he kicked the door closed with his foot—one powerful motion that made the frame shudder.
Between kisses, he reached behind him and locked the deadbolt.
Click.
Even in the heat of passion, even with his hands on my body and his mouth devouring mine, his priority was keeping me safe.
I smiled against his lips.
This was love.
This was what it felt like when someone chose you, protected you, made you the center of their entire world.
“Truth,” he murmured, his voice rough. The sound of my name on his lips sent heat flooding through me.
“Don’t talk,” I whispered. “Just—”
He kissed me again, harder this time, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, and I moaned.
My hands moved to his chest, pushing the ruined shirt off his shoulders, and it fell to the floor in a heap. His skin was warm under my palms, his muscles hard and defined, and I traced the lines of his body like I was memorizing him.
There were scars—old ones, new ones, stories written in his flesh—and I kissed each one I could reach.
His hands moved to the straps of my dress, sliding them down my shoulders, and the fabric pooled at my waist. I wasn’t wearing a bra—hadn’t bothered when I was just waiting at home—and his eyes darkened as he looked at me.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful.”
I felt heat rise in my cheeks, but I didn’t look away.
I wasn’t ashamed.
Not of my body, not of the way it had changed with the pregnancy, and not of the way he was looking at me like I was something sacred.
He lifted me, his hands gripping my thighs, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. My back hit the wall, and he pressed against me, his mouth finding my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast.
I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
His beard scratched against my skin, rough and perfect, and I arched into him, needing more.
“Amai—”
“I know, baby. I know.”
His mouth closed over my nipple, and I cried out, the sensation shooting straight through me. He was gentle but insistent, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing, and I felt myself unraveling.
“Please,” I whispered.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine.
“You sure?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
He carried me to the couch, laying me down gently, and then he pulled my dress the rest of the way off, his hands sliding my panties down my legs.
I was bare before him, vulnerable and exposed, and he looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.
He stripped off his jeans, his boxers, and then he was naked, too, and I couldn’t look away.
He was all hard muscle and dangerous edges, his body a weapon honed by years of violence and survival. But when he touched me, his hands were gentle.
He knelt between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs, and I shivered.
“I need to taste you,” he murmured.
Before I could respond, his mouth was on me, and I gasped, my back arching off the couch.
His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, and I felt myself coming apart under his touch. He knew exactly what to do, exactly where to touch, and I was helpless against the pleasure building inside me.
“Amai—oh, God—”
He didn’t stop. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place, and his mouth worked me over until I was trembling, gasping, begging.
“Come for me, Truth,” he said against my skin, and the command in his voice sent me over the edge.
I shattered, my body convulsing, his name a broken cry on my lips.
He didn’t give me time to recover.
He moved up my body, his mouth finding mine, and I tasted myself on his lips. It should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. It was intimate. Raw. Real.
He positioned himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.
“It won’t be.”
He pushed inside, slow and careful, and I felt the stretch, the fullness, the way my body opened for him.
It was perfect.
He was perfect.
He stilled once he was fully seated, his forehead resting against mine, his breath ragged.
“Fuck, Truth. You feel—”
“Move,” I whispered. “Please.”
He did.
He pulled back and thrust forward, and I moaned, my hands gripping his shoulders.
He set a rhythm—slow at first, deliberate, like he was savoring every second. His hands moved over my body, touching, claiming, and worshipping.
“You’re mine,” he murmured against my ear. “You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He groaned, his hips snapping forward harder, and I cried out.
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Amai. Only yours.”
He kissed me, deep and possessive, and then he was moving faster, harder, his control slipping.
I met him thrust for thrust, my body arching into his, and the pleasure built again, higher and higher until I couldn’t breathe.
“Play with it,” he commanded, his voice rough.
I slid my hand between us, my fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves, and I gasped.
“That’s it, baby. Make yourself come on my dick.”
The words sent me spiraling, and I felt the orgasm building, tightening, ready to explode.
“Amai—I’m—”
“I know. I can feel you. Let go, bae. Let go.”
I did.
I came apart, my body clenching around him, and he followed me over the edge, his nut filling me up. When he eased out of me, I could feel it spill between my thighs. Sticky and warm.
We collapsed together, breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat.
He shifted his weight, careful not to crush me, and his hand moved to my belly, resting there gently.
“The babies okay?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Yeah. They’re fine.”
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then my shoulder, then my belly.
“I love you,” he whispered against my skin. “I love all three of you.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“I love you too.”
He pulled me against him, wrapping his arms around me, and for the first time in hours, I felt safe.
We lay there in the quiet, our breathing syncing, our hearts beating in tandem.
This was what it felt like to be loved.
To be chosen.
To be home.
And I never wanted to let it go.
Amai kissed my forehead one more time before pulling away.
“Let me get us a towel,” he murmured, his voice still rough from exertion.
I nodded, watching as he stood and walked toward the bathroom, completely naked and unbothered. The muscles in his back flexed with each step, and I felt a flutter low in my belly that had nothing to do with the babies.
God, he was beautiful.
Dangerous. Deadly. But beautiful.
I stretched out on the couch, my body still humming with satisfaction, and that’s when I saw it.
His phone.
It was lying face-up on the cushion beside me, the screen still lit.
Unlocked.
I hesitated for half a second—this felt like crossing a line, invading his privacy—but then I remembered what Mama said.
You need to know who these men really are.
I picked up the phone.