Chapter 2
Chapter two
The Anatomy of Violent Hunger
Dominic
Through the kitchen window I watched from the shadows with my hand pressed against the glass as I thought about the bills piling on her counter, the late nights at her law firm, the exhaustion etched into her bones.
Scott is blocking all the lawyers. This is going to give her more money problems.
Scott thought money meant control—bills paid late, power games with lawyers, dangling child support each month like a leash.
He had no idea what real wealth looked like.
Real wealth was the chef plating salmon like it was art, the cocktails shining in crystal, the house scrubbed clean of his filth.
Scott trying to manipulate her through money was why she had taken control on her end and rented out the basement apartment. It was why she posted an ad on my medical school bulletin board.
I’d torn down the slip with her number before anyone else could.
The grad dorms had been suffocating—sterile, soulless, echoing with loneliness I couldn’t bear.
My parents had died three years ago, leaving me lost and wandering in our mansion’s long hallways that felt colder without them.
Both celebrated doctors, they didn’t have me until their forties, long after they’d stopped expecting children. When I arrived, I became their second youth and their last great project.
Now it was hard to even visit my mansion. I let our maid Mathilde remain there, keeping it clean.
Grief lingered in the walls, in the muted way the floorboards no longer creaked under their footsteps, in my mother’s empty reading chair by the library window where sunlight fell every morning.
Sometimes I still caught myself pausing outside their bedroom, ready to knock, ready to tell them something I’d forgotten they could no longer hear.
I’d been. . .falling for a while. . .after their death. . .
But when I came to Teyonah’s house. . .when I met her and the kids. . .something changed.
She’d touched my hand that first day, surrounding it with warmth. When I told her about losing my parents, she’d pulled me into a hug that lasted longer than politeness required. I’d closed my eyes, breathed her in, and for the first time in years, felt held.
Not pitied.
But. . .truly held.
And even. . .nurtured.
Something I hadn’t known I’d been starving for until she gave it to me.
And now I wanted to repay her every day. To make her see she wasn’t alone, no matter how much Scott tried to break her.
Scott starved her of love and called it marriage.
I got hard just watching her breathe and called it truth.
He spent years eroding her confidence.
I spent months memorizing the way her laugh rebuilt me from the inside out.
He wanted her small.
I wanted her infinite.
Fucking bastard tried to ruin her Mother’s Day. I should kill him.
My hand curled into a fist against the brick wall. If Scott so much as stepped foot back here, I’d bury him under these rose petals and let the boys think it was just another surprise for their Mommy.
The front door opened.
Teyonah stepped inside and everything within my soul shifted.
Even after a ten-hour day at the firm, she looked composed, professional, still in control. I was still upset for her that she had to work on a Sunday, but her supervising lawyer had a huge case this month.
She told me once that her hair was always a battlefield she fought with scarves, pins, and creams. I never understood what she meant by that. It was always styled beautifully. Tonight her hair fell sensually around her face.
Her skin was deep brown, smooth and radiant even under the harsh hall light.
Long silver earrings brushed against her jaw when she turned her head.
Her full voluptuous breasts filled a deep crimson blouse.
A black pencil skirt hugged her stomach and thick hips. The sway of those were enough to make my throat go dry. A leather tote bag was slung over her shoulder, stacked with files. Black heels finished the look.
God, she had the kind of lush body that made my palms itch.
When she spotted her kids, they burst into their lines, voices eager, high-pitched, nervous.
J held out their hands like a magician about to reveal a trick. “Mommy, tonight is your night to be pampered!”
Oliver bobbed his head so hard his bow tie nearly spun sideways. “And you can have pampers too!”
Then, together at the top of their lungs: “Happy Mother’s Day!”
I grinned.
They nailed it.
“Pampered and pampers? What?!” Her face lit up instantly, all the exhaustion cracking apart as joy spilled through. She clutched her chest, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. “Did my babies put together a big surprise for me?”
“Yes, Mommy.” J’s grin stretched ear to ear. “We worked on it all afternoon.”
Oliver pointed dramatically at the floor. “Look at the rose petals!”
“Wow.” Teyonah blinked, eyes wide. “Umm. . .How. . .did y’all get rose petals?”
“We saved up money.”
I bit back a laugh.
“Oh my God.” She gasped, then chuckled, then her eyes filled with tears. “This is so sweet.”
Oliver froze at the sight of tears, panicked. “Are you broken, Mommy? Do you need a Band-Aid?”
“I’m not broken. I’m fine.” She sniffled, laughing through it.
J bit their lip, serious. “Are you sure? We can get you water.”
“I am fine.” She dropped her leather tote and scooped them both into her arms, crushing them so tight their little suits wrinkled. She kissed their wild curls as tears streaked her cheeks and whispered words only they could hear.
Perfect.
My throat tightened.
My eyes stung.
I’d grown up in a house where emotions were rationed, where my father praised report cards more than embraces. But here, in this little entryway with rose petals and giggling children, love poured out raw and unfiltered.
“Alright. Let’s see what my babies have in store for me tonight.” She let them drag her forward, following the trail of roses toward the dining table.
Suddenly, the chef appeared from the kitchen with a cocktail on a silver tray. “Happy Mother’s day.”
“Ah!!” She shrieked in shock, nearly tripping over her heels. “What the hell?! Who are you?!”
Oliver slapped Chef Marco’s hand in a victorious high-five. “He’s the chef, Mommy. He cooked food for us tonight.”
Her jaw dropped. “But. . .what. . .how. . .”
I couldn’t stop chuckling.
She pointed at Chef Marco. “Who hired you? Where did you come from?”
Unbothered, Chef Marco bowed and handed her the cocktail. “Your little ones hired me. I hope I don’t disappoint.”
Her mouth fell open. “Okay. Hold on.” She took the cocktail automatically. “What’s really going on here?”
J beamed like the world’s best liar. “We saved up our allowance, Mommy.”
“Okay, but—”
“Mommy, come see our gifts!” Oliver tugged her toward the table, practically skipping with excitement.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
My chest ached.
It’s done. They’re fine from here.
Quietly, I backed away from the window.
This was their night, not mine.
But. . .I couldn’t leave just yet. . .
For whatever reason. . .I lingered in the backyard, watching and listening to them. I made sure to hide on the side where our nosy neighbor Mrs. Patterson couldn’t see me.
Teyonah’s laughter carried out to the backyard. The boys’ chatter rose and fell. The clink of silverware on porcelain sang out as the first plates were served.
My heart ached even more.
Moving away from the window and getting deeper into the shadows, I leaned against the brick wall, slid my hands into my pockets, and tried to steady the rush in my veins.
Why did it matter so much to me that she smiled?
Why did my heart race every time I heard her laugh?
It felt like some fucking. . .addiction.
Some disease with no cure.
I thought of her exhaustion. She was so fucking beautiful even though sometimes she had dark circles under her eyes or chipped polish on her nails. For some crazy reason that only God knew. . .every part of that made her so erotic to me.
What’s wrong with me?
Why did her exhaustion make me hard?
Why did the chipped polish on her nails feel more intimate than a lingerie ad?
Why did the curve of her belly, the heaviness of her hips, the weight she thought was a flaw, keep me awake at night with my fist tight around my cock?
I’d been reading psych books to try and figure it all out because that was what med students did when something scared them.
We looked for answers in the body, in the mind, in pathology.
And in this research, I found words like. . .
Obsession.
Compulsion.
Transference.
Those words stared at me from psych textbooks like accusations. Some case studies called it “maternal fixation,” some called it “attachment substitution.”
All of them pointed toward something possibly being broken in me.
Maybe I was replacing what I lost when my mother died. Maybe I was latching onto the first nurturing presence that didn’t recoil from me.
Maybe I was confusing gratitude with lust.
But standing outside that window, listening to her laugh, I didn’t feel confused.
I felt clear.
I wanted her.
Not as a saint, a surrogate, or some safe replacement for a fucking mother.
I wanted her as a woman—full, flawed, and human.
I wanted the breasts she tried to hide under blouses that didn’t quite button right. I wanted the curve of her hips when she bent to pick up a grocery bag. I wanted to press my mouth to every stretch of her skin she thought was ruined, to make her see how wrong she was.
And maybe that was sick.
Maybe it was pathological.
But sickness didn’t feel this sharp, this necessary, this alive.
When I thought about Teyonah—her hand brushing mine at breakfast, the casual warmth of it, her fingers lingering like she didn’t even realize how much they burned me—it was enough to make my skin ache for more.
Yesterday morning, she leaned across me at breakfast to grab the orange juice, her blouse brushing my arm, her breasts pressing faintly into my shoulder.
She probably didn’t notice.
However, I thought about her scent and touch for the rest of the day on rounds.