5. YAHMARIA BAPTISTE #3
Sat on the edge of the bed with my leather-bound journal in my lap and wrote three pages of stream-of-consciousness thoughts that I’d burn before anyone ever read them.
I hate him.
I hate myself more.
I miss Thailand.
I miss being free.
I miss being a person instead of a pawn.
Then I reached for my Bible.
Opened it to a random page and read until the words blurred together, and I couldn’t tell if I was praying or just talking to myself.
When I finished, I closed the book and set it on the nightstand.
Then I went downstairs.
The kitchen smelled faintly of copper and something floral—lavender maybe, from the candles I’d lit the other day.
Layla’s body was still on the floor.
I stepped over it without looking down.
Walked to the coffee maker and started a fresh pot.
This was a dick-swinging contest now.
Me and Amai.
And I was ready to prove mine was bigger.
Metaphorically, of course.
Physically, Amai had a damn python between his legs.
That was another complaint I never had.
The man was blessed in ways that should’ve been illegal. Thick. Long. The kind of dick that made you rethink your life choices and question whether you’d ever really been fucked before him.
And the voodoo in it?
Jesus.
The way that shit would have you offering up your free will like it was nothing. Like you were born to surrender. Like his pleasure was the only thing that mattered and yours was just a side effect of his generosity.
I felt the heat rising in my chest.
Felt my body responding to the memory of him inside me, moving with that slow, deliberate precision that made you forget your own name.
I physically shook my body.
Snapped myself out of it.
“This ain’t that,” I muttered under my breath.
The coffee maker beeped.
I poured myself a cup—black, no sugar—and walked to the back door.
Slid it open and stepped out onto the deck.
The morning air was thick and humid, but the view was beautiful.
Lush green lawn stretching out toward the tree line. Birds singing in the distance. Sunlight filtering through the leaves in golden streaks that looked like something out of a painting.
Amai never sat back here.
I’d noticed that the first time I moved into this house.
He had this entire beautiful space—this sanctuary—and he never used it.
I always felt it was because the back deck was the one pretty thing he couldn’t rip apart.
Amai broke pretty things.
Not intentionally.
That’s what was so scary about it.
It was completely unintentional.
He’d see you in a way you’d never been seen. Like he could look past all the walls and defenses and see straight into the parts of you that you kept hidden. The parts you didn’t even show yourself.
And he’d love you in a way that gripped your soul.
The kind of love that made you feel like you’d die if you let it go.
But the part that really tied your soul to his?
The part that made it impossible to walk away, even when you knew you should?
That happened when he made love to you.
Not fucked.
Made love.
Because that’s when you saw the other demon.
Not the one in the streets who moved bodies and ran empires and made grown men piss themselves with a single look.
No.
You saw the other demon.
The one that smirked while you fell apart beneath him.
The one that whispered filthy, beautiful things in your ear while his hands mapped every inch of your body like he was memorizing scripture.
The one that licked you back together piece by piece after he’d shattered you so completely you didn’t know where you ended and he began.
He did it so well you almost forgot you were broken.
Almost forgot that the man putting you back together was the same man who’d helped break you in the first place.
I took a sip of my coffee.
Stared out at the trees.
And hated him.
Hated myself more.
Because even now—even after everything—I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin.
Still feel the way he used to hold me after, his arms wrapped around me like I was something precious instead of something purchased.
I closed my eyes.
Took a breath.
And reminded myself why I was here.
Not for him.
Not for love.
Not for anything that resembled a future.
I was here because my father had made it clear: the Baptiste empire survived only as long as the Landry alliance held.
And I was the glue.
Whether I wanted to be or not.
I opened my eyes.
Took another sip of coffee.
And told myself I could survive this.
I’d survived worse.
I finished my coffee on the back deck.
Let the morning air settle into my lungs one last time before I had to go back inside and face whatever fresh hell was waiting for me.
The house.
Amai.
The body I’d left on the kitchen floor a day ago.
I stood slowly, stretched, and walked back toward the sliding glass door.
The moment I stepped inside, I smelled it.
Bleach.
Industrial-strength cleaner.
And underneath it, faint but unmistakable, the copper tang of blood being scrubbed away.
I walked into the kitchen.
Three men in black uniforms were working efficiently. One was mopping the tile where Layla’s body had been. Another was wiping down the cabinets. The third was loading black bags onto a dolly.
Layla was gone.
Finally.
Amai was standing near the island with his arms crossed, watching them work.
He looked up when I walked in.
Our eyes met.
I didn’t say anything.
Just walked to the coffee maker and poured myself another cup.
“She was starting to stink,” Amai said flatly. “That’s the only reason this shit is getting cleaned up.”
I shrugged.
Took a sip of my coffee.
“Okay.”
One of the cleaners glanced at me, then quickly looked away.
Smart man.
Amai’s jaw tightened.
He waited until the cleaners moved into the hallway before he spoke again.
“Yaya.” His voice was low. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes,” he said, stepping closer. “We do.”
I turned to face him fully.
Leaned back against the counter.
Waited.
He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep his temper in check.
“Look,” he said. “I get it. You’re pissed. You don’t want to be here. Neither do I. But we need to chill the fuck out until I can figure out a way we both can get out of this shit.”
I tilted my head.
Studied him.
“What makes you think I want that?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“What makes you think,” I repeated slowly, “that I want out?”
Amai stared at me like I’d just spoken a different language.
“Because I know you,” he said finally. “You don’t want to be with me. You never did.”
“No,” I agreed. “I don’t.”
Relief flickered across his face.
“Then—”
“But I do want to make you suffer.”
The relief died.
His expression went cold.
Hard.
“Yaya—”
I set my coffee cup on the counter.
Turned.
And walked toward the stairs.
“Yaya!” His voice was louder now. Sharper. “I didn’t do shit! I’m in the same fucked-up position as you are!”
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Didn’t turn around.
Just looked back over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “But you’re in love.”
His whole body went still.
“And you don’t deserve that.”
I kept walking.
Up the stairs.
Down the hallway.
Into the guest room.
I closed the door behind me.
Locked it.
And for the first time in two days, I smiled.