Chapter Three Xalori Carson
“Do you have to go?” Nasir pouted, his little fingers clutching Eason’s sleeve like letting go might break him.
It had only been forty-five minutes since Nas woke up, and in that short time, I managed to learn the name of the mystery man invading our lives… Eason Storm. And I hated everything about him so far.
I hated how easily his name rolled off Nasir’s tongue. Hate how they sat there talking like old friends. Hated how, in less than an hour, Eason had my son looking up at him like he’d hung the damn moon.
Nasir wasn’t friendly. He was cautious. He didn’t warm up to people—especially not strange men. Yet here he was, latched onto this man like they shared history. And that shit struck a nerve deep in me.
I rose from the couch in the corner, keeping my voice steady as I walked toward them. “Baby, I know you’re enjoying Mr. Storm’s company,” I said gently, “but he has to go. You need to rest now. So, thank him and tell him goodbye.”
Nas’s bottom lip poked out. “But, Mommy—”
“No buts.” I brushed a hand through his curls, softening my tone. “We’re okay on our own.”
The air in the room shifted.
A few minutes ago, a nurse had come in with discharge papers for Eason’s daughter. The second I heard them say she was clear to leave, something inside me locked up.
I’d been stealing glances at her since we got in this room. She was so damn innocent, so peaceful. But every rise and fall of her chest, every beep of the monitors, was a gut punch I couldn’t outrun. A reminder of what I’d lost. Of who I’d buried.
I was suffocating in this room. Every breath felt borrowed.
But now that the nurse had come in with discharge papers, I was done. Done playing nice. Done sharing oxygen with a man who took up too much space.
Nasir’s frown deepened. His small fingers curled tighter around Eason’s sleeve like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.
But I didn’t care. I needed space. I needed air.
I needed Eason Storm gone before he made himself at home. Before that man—with all his money, his muscle, his dark eyes and darker presence—started thinking he belonged here. In our world.
Eason looked at me then, his expression unreadable but eyes locked on mine, a lazy smirk dragging across his mouth.
“Don’t ever do that again, Muffin.”
There it was again. That damn name. It wasn’t just a nickname. It was a warning and a claim. Every time he said it, it crawled under my skin and settled in places I didn’t want touched. It was dangerous. Too intimate. Too real.
And the worst part, some twisted, exhausted piece of me didn’t even mind.
I crossed my arms, standing tall. “It’s Xalori. And what exactly did I do, besides talk to my son?”
“You spoke for me.” His voice didn’t rise, but the tension underneath it did. “I’m a grown-ass man. I don’t need a mouthpiece.”
My brows shot up. This motherfucker.
“And more than that,” he stepped toward me, “you hurt lil’ man’s feelings. That don’t sit right with me. So now you’re gonna apologize and promise me that shit won’t happen again.”
I blinked. Oh, he had me fucked up.
“You do realize that’s my son, right?”
“Our.”
I froze. “What?”
“You said my son.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “I was just correcting you. He’s our son.”
My stomach dropped. The audacity. The delusion.
He barely even knew Nasir. Just met him. And yet here he was—claiming him like it was written in blood. Like I hadn’t carried that child, sacrificed my body, my sanity, and every ounce of comfort to keep him safe from the world. Like Eason Storm had any right to label what was mine.
I opened my mouth, ready to light his ass up, but he tilted his head, and just like that, the air shifted. His expression shifted. The amusement in his face dimmed into something serious and calculated.
“And we’re not doing this in front of him,” he said quietly. “His ears are soaking all this up. So, if you wanna talk like grown folks, let’s duck off and handle it the right way.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping lower—dangerous and steady. “Don’t let your pride fuck this up.”
His gaze locked on mine, daring me to challenge him. And I hated that for half a second, I almost considered it.
Seeing that I had nothing to say, Eason smirked like he’d already won. Then he leaned forward and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to my forehead.
Warm. Gentle. Possessive.
The second his lips touched my skin, my eyes fluttered shut. My body, traitorous and tired, melted into him. For one breath—one dangerous breath—I forgot.
Forgot where we were.
Forgot who he was.
Forgot why I hated everything about him.
My mind drifted, wandering into dangerous territory. Imagined how his mouth would feel on mine. How they might taste. How soft those lips would be sliding down my neck. How they might feel lower.
But just as quickly as the thoughts entered my mind, his deep voice snapped me right back to reality.
“Now, our son wants me to stay. So, I’ll be staying.”
My eyes flew open. “Excuse me?”
“And if your stubborn ass stopped fighting it,” he added, settling into the seat beside Nas like he’d been there all along, “you’d admit you want a nigga to stay too.”
I was gonna kill him.
My heart pounded, frustration bubbling up like boiling water under my skin. I clenched my fists, grounding myself.
He was too much.
Too damn cocky.
Too sure of himself.
Too comfortable in a space that didn’t belong to him.
And what made it worse—what twisted my stomach and burned through my chest—was the haunting familiarity of it all.
I’d seen this before. That confidence. That smooth, arrogant charm. That way of pushing past barriers like they were made of paper instead of trauma.
For a second, just one small second, I saw the past crash into the present. Because Prime had moved like that too. He’d once wormed his way into my life and made me believe I was safe, only to break me into a thousand pieces when I finally let my guard down.
And now here I was, staring down a man who moved the same. Who stared the same. Who carried that same intoxicating pull. And I knew I wouldn’t survive another man like that.
I turned away, sucking in a breath, fighting myself. Fighting the pull. Trying to build the wall back brick by fucking brick.
But Nas’s voice stopped me cold.
“Yay! I’m so glad you’re staying with us! Mommy’s scared of hospitals,” he added innocently, “and I don’t want her to be scared while I’m sleeping.”
The second those words left his mouth, my heart stuttered in my chest. I thought I’d hidden it well, my fear and trauma. My panic attacks and sleepless nights and how every hospital hallway felt like a damn graveyard. I thought I kept that pain locked up tight.
But I should’ve known better. Kids notice everything, especially when you’re all they have.
When I lost Aaliyah, I lost everything. There was no one to hold me, no one to catch me when I crumbled. I had to be strong for Nas. I didn’t have time to fall apart.
But I still did. I fell in private. In silence. Behind locked doors.
And no matter how much I tried to keep the cracks hidden, sometimes they bled through. Sometimes the weight got too damn heavy. And Nas he noticed. As much as I tried to protect him from those moments, it was clear he’d seen more than I ever wanted him to.
Eason’s sharp gaze slid to mine, his brows arching like he’d just uncovered a secret. “Oh really?” he asked Nas, voice playful. “And why’s Mommy scared of hospitals? Is it the needles? The big, bad doctors?”
Nas giggled, completely unaware of the storm he was walking us into. “No, silly. She’s scared of hospitals because of my sister.”
The room turned to ice. I felt it coming before he said it and it still knocked the wind out of me.
Before Eason could ask anything else, I abruptly grab my purse and keys. “I’ll be back,” I muttered, not looking at either of them.
I didn’t wait for a response. The second I stepped into the hallway the weight didn’t lift. It pressed harder. My chest caved under it.
The hospital air was too thick, too sterile. The scent of bleach, low murmur of nurses, and rhythmic beep of machines was all too damn much.
I needed air. I needed out.
My legs carried me down the corridor on autopilot, past shadowed rooms and tired staff, through the double glass doors into the night. The cool air hit my skin, sharp and unforgiving. But it didn’t soothe me. Nothing did.
My hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. Every streetlight blurred. Every corner bled into the next. I didn’t need a map. My soul knew the way.
It always did.
It was the same place I ended up every time the grief threatened to swallow me whole. The place where silence screamed the loudest.
The drive was a blur, the weight of memories pressing against my chest like an iron cage.
By the time I pulled through the wrought iron gates of Everly Grove Cemetery, my hands were trembling and my breathing uneven.
She should’ve been here. She should’ve been alive, laughing and playing.
Not here. Not buried beneath dirt and stone while the world kept moving like she never existed.
Slowly, I forced myself out of the car, the weight of grief dragging behind each step. The damp ground squished beneath my heels as I walked the familiar path to Aaliyah’s grave, the earth soft and cold like it remembered too.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears, each pulse louder than the last. The second I knelt beside her headstone, the dam inside me cracked wide open. Tears slid fast, hot and bitter. My hands trembled as I brushed leaves off her name, tracing each letter like they were the only pieces of her I had left.
Then I felt it. A sharp chill ran down my spine and that eerie feeling of being watched sent a shiver creeping up my neck. I didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.
“I should call the cops.” I rasped, voice raw, wiping at my face with the back of my hand.
Eason smirked, stepping into view like he’d been summoned. Hands tucked in his pockets, eyes gleaming with something dark and familiar.
“Call the cops on me if you want,” he said, voice low and slow. “Do I look like the type of nigga to give a fuck ‘bout some badge-wearing bitch-ass nigga?”
He chuckled, deep and cold.
“We already at the perfect spot for them niggas to have a going-away party.”
I rolled my eyes, body still trembling from everything I hadn’t let go. “So what? You stalking me now?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just took another step forward, his presence swallowing the space like it belonged to him.
“You call it stalking,” he murmured, voice dipping to something sharp and possessive, “I call it protecting what’s mine.”
My breathing hitched. What the hell? When did I become his?
I folded my arms across my chest, trying to hold myself together, trying to ignore the way his words sank deep.
He shrugged, casually. “Can’t have you out here alone. Might be some delusional maniac running around.”
“You,” I muttered.
That smirk of his widened. “You got me there, Muffin.”
Damn that nickname. Damn the way it made my stomach twist. Damn the way his presence made the cemetery feel less empty.
And damn me too—because no matter how far I ran, some buried, broken part of me wasn’t trying to escape him. Not really.