CHAPTER 13
Ciara’s POV:
The scent of lavender bleach from my freshly washed sheets couldn’t completely mask the musk of last night.
I woke up slowly, my eyelids heavy, feeling the deep, indentation on the mattress right beside me where Joshua’s massive body had been anchored just hours before.
The spot was empty now, the sheets cold where he’d rest, but his presence was still practically painted onto the walls of my bedroom.
I rolled onto my stomach, burying my face into my pillow, inhaling the sharp, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the primal, heavy aroma of raw sweat and skin.
My body ached. It was a dull, deep throbbing in my core, a heavy reminder of the way he had possessed me last night after we practically tore through the front door of my apartment.
We had driven back from that restaurant in a silence so thick you could have cut it with a blade.
My hands had been shaking on my lap, my knuckles white, my mind trapped in a terrifying loop of that bastard Morgan standing over us, a cold iron Glock pointed straight at the head of the man I loved.
I had wanted to rip Morgan's throat out with my bare teeth right there on the beachside.
The homicidal rage had been a physical fire burning in the back of my throat, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.
But Joshua. Damn.
The man had been a stone-cold anchor. He hadn’t let the panic take over.
The moment the deadbolt clicked into place last night, he didn't say a single word. He just pinned me against the hallway wall, his large, calloused hands gripping my hips with a fierce, territorial dominance that completely shattered my spiraling thoughts. He took me right there, raw and breathless, lifting me up until my back scraped against the drywall, his mouth crushing against mine to drown out my furious, trembling rants. He had fucked the anger right out of me, replacing the terrifying memory of Morgan’s gun with the heavy, undeniable weight of his own body.
Every hard, desperate thrust had been a silent promise: I’m here.
I’m alive. You’re mine. I’ve got you. He had anchored my sanity when I was ready to burn the whole world down.
I finally pulled myself out of bed, the cool morning air hitting my bare skin and sending a sharp shiver down my spine.
Walking into the kitchen, the hardwood floors felt ice-cold beneath my bare feet.
I needed something grounding. I reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a package of turkey bacon, dropping the strips into a well-seasoned iron skillet.
Within seconds, the sharp, popping sizzle filled the quiet kitchen, the savory grease spitting against the black metal.
I cracked three eggs into a bowl, whisking them vigorously, the rhythmic scraping of the fork against the ceramic glass mimicking the frantic beat of my own heart.
As I stood over the stove, watching the bacon curl and darken at the edges, my mind kept drifting back to the sheer madness of the situation.
Joshua and I were locked in. Completely.
There was no turning back from this, no casual exit strategy.
He wasn't just like a psychologist to me anymore, and I wasn't just a woman trying to sort through her baggage.
We were bound together by something dark, something heavy, and the fact that Morgan was still out there breathing the same air was a toxic stain on the life we were trying to build.
He was a nuisance that had crossed a line you don't ever cross.
You don't point a weapon at my man. You don't threaten my peace.
I plated the food, the steam rising up and carrying the rich aroma of peppered eggs and crisp bacon.
I ate slowly at the small kitchen table, chewing mechanically, barely tasting the food as my eyes stared blankly at the sunlight cutting through the blinds, casting long, cage-like shadows across the linoleum floor.
The silence in the apartment felt deceptive.
It felt like the quiet before a thunderstorm, the heavy pressure in the air that tells you a tornado is spinning somewhere just out of sight.
Once the plate was cleared and washed, I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and grabbed my phone off the counter. I needed to hear a familiar, grounded voice. I dialed my mother’s number, listening to the tinny, rhythmic hum of the ringing tone against my ear.
She answered on the second ring, her voice thick with the warm, heavy drawl of a woman who had spent her entire life surviving the treacherous blocks of Houston. "Ciara? Girl, why you calling me this early on a Saturday? You know I was right in the middle of watching my programs."
"Morning, Ma," I said, leaning my lower back against the kitchen counter, my fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the Formica. "I needed to talk to you. A lot happened last night. A whole lot."
There was a sudden pause on the line, the rustle of a newspaper or a blanket shifting as her maternal instincts instantly flared. "What you mean a whole lot? Ciara, don't you start playing with my nerves this early in the morning. What’s going on? Is it that boy Morgan again?"
I sighed, the sound heavy and ragged as I rubbed the bridge of my nose.
"Yeah, Ma. Morgan is still being a complete nuisance. Even though we left that dynamic behind, even though I told him it was over, he’s still acting out.
But listen... me and Joshua? The doctor?
We are fully locked in. Like, for real for real.
He’s the one, Ma. He keeps me centered."
"Well, I'm glad you got somebody who can handle your stubborn tail," my mother said, her tone softening slightly, though the underlying tension was still palpable. "But don't try to smooth things over with no romance talk. What did Morgan do? You sounding real heavy right now, Ciara."
"We went out on a date last night, Ma. A real nice restaurant down by the water.
Everything was beautiful. The food, the atmosphere, the way Joshua was looking at me...
it was all good until that bastard showed up.
Morgan came out of nowhere, like a real stalker but he was with some chick named Kelly, right by the beachside as we were trying to leave the restaurant.
He spoiled the whole damn night." I swallowed hard, the memory of the dark, crashing waves and the sudden flash of metal causing a bitter taste of bile to rise in my throat.
"Ma... he pulled a gun. He held a Glock right to the good doctor’s head while his chick ran off to alert the authorities. "
"Lord have mercy!" my mother shrieked, the sound sharp enough to make me pull the phone an inch away from my ear.
I could hear her gasping for air on the other end, her voice instantly rising into a frantic, terrified pitch.
"A gun? To the man's head? Ciara, tell me you lying to me right now!
Jesus, my pressure... my pressure is going up just hearing this! "
"Calm down, Ma, please," I urged, though my own voice was tight with residual anger.
"Joshua is fine. He heaved a massive sigh of relief when we finally got away, but he handled it like a real man.
He didn't blink. He didn't beg. He stayed calm and talked that fool down enough for us to get into the car and drive away.
The cops are looking for Morgan right now.
They're hunting his ass down as we speak.
They've got warrants out, and they're digging up everything they can find on him. "
I could hear my mother taking deep, ragged breaths through the speaker, trying to steady her nerves.
"Thank the Lord... thank the Lord that sweet man is all right.
An intelligent and well established psychologist?
A man of great manners? And that ghetto thug wants to put a weapon to his face?
Ciara, I told you about messing with people like Morgan.
He ain't got nothing to lose, and a man with nothing to lose will drag you down into the dirt with him. But Joshua... he really stayed calm?"
"Extremely brave, Ma," I said, a genuine sense of pride washing over my chest, warming the cold knot of anxiety that had been sitting there all morning.
"He didn't let him see him sweat. He protected me. When Morgan was acting wild, Joshua just stood his ground like a brick wall. That’s why I'm telling you, we are locked in.
I've never had a man stand up for me like that without losing his own mind in the process. "
"Well, you better keep him close then," my mother warned, her voice dropping into a solemn, heavy register. "And you stay inside. If the police are looking for Morgan, he’s gonna be frantic. He’s gonna be looking for a place to hide or somebody to blame. You hear me, Ciara?"
"I hear you, Ma. I'm just getting ready for the day," I replied, trying to steer the conversation away from the impending doom.
As I spoke, my eyes caught on a brightly colored flyer stuck to my refrigerator with a magnet.
It was an invitation. "Hey, I forgot to tell you... today is Mr. Thomas’s cookout in his backyard. Remember he invited me last week?"
"Oh, Mr. Thomas!" my mother’s voice immediately brightened, the terror of Morgan temporarily pushed aside by the mention of the neighborhood saint.
"Now that is an excellent man. Seventy years old and still got more class than these young boys out here could ever dream of.
You know he used to cook for one of the actual members of Congress back in the day? His food is like heaven on a plate."