Chapter Eighteen Eason Storm #2
If Harmony wanted a war, I’d give her one.
But I wasn’t gonna play defense, I was comin’ straight for her throat.
I had texts, voicemails, surveillance, and paper trails.
Every wild-ass voicemail she left threatening to ruin me, and every photo I snapped of her popping pills while Ginger was in the other room.
That was the kind of bitch I was dealing with. And now she wanted to paint me as the monster? Nah, fuck that. I was about to make sure every lie she told got fed back to her with a chokehold attached.
I came out that office ten minutes later, hot with purpose, head on a fucking swivel.
My mind was already ten steps ahead, calculating every move, every consequence.
But the second I saw her, standing in the kitchen, barefoot in that yellow sundress, forehead pressed to the fridge like she was trying to hold herself together, I stopped.
Not because she looked broken, but because she didn’t. She looked ready for war.
I crossed the room without saying a word and slid my hands around her waist, pulling her back against me. She didn’t flinch nor fight it. She just leaned into me like her body already knew mine was the safest place to collapse.
“I’m sorry the day got fucked up,” I murmured into her neck. “I had plans for us.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said softly. “It’s not your fault she’s evil.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. Because my next move was gon’ say everything.
“I’m putting Ginger in your name,” I said, voice low and final. “Legally.”
She froze. Her breath caught.
“What?”
I turned her around, made sure she saw the truth in my eyes. “I already started the paperwork. Full guardianship and custody. Harmony wanna play victim? Cool. Let her. I’m taking her ammo away.”
She blinked, stunned, like she hadn’t expected me to take it there.
“You—you’d do that?”
“I am doing it,” I snapped. “I’m not letting that bitch use Ginger as a weapon. Not against me. Not against you.”
Her eyes glossed over, lips parting like she didn’t know what to say. But I wasn’t finished.
“You been showing up for our daughter since the second y’all met,” I went on, voice raw now. “Ginger already chose you. She calls you Mama. You the one brushing her curls and rocking her to sleep. You the one she looks for when she’s scared.”
I stepped in closer, brushing my thumb across her cheek.
“I know you scared,” I whispered. “I know you feel guilty. About Aaliyah. About moving on. About being happy. But Ginger ain’t a replacement. She’s a piece of this new life we’re building. She’s yours, same way Nas is mine.”
Her tears finally broke free. She covered her mouth, shaking her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. But she wasn’t pulling away. She wasn’t running.
“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to be… enough.”
“You already are.”
I grabbed her hand and pressed it against my chest.
“You think I’d give you my daughter if I had a shadow of a doubt?”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. She just launched herself into my chest, crying in that silent, violent kind of way. The kind of tears that didn’t need sound to speak volumes.
And I held her. Tight. Firm. Like I’d never let her go again.
Because I wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.
She was still trembling in my arms when I lifted her chin. Her tears had dried into the soft curve of her cheeks, but the weight hadn’t left her eyes.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered. “How to let myself have this. How to accept this without feeling like I’m robbing Aaliyah of something.”
I brushed my thumb across her lower lip. “You ain’t robbing her of nothing.”
“You don’t get it—”
“I do get it,” I cut her off gently, my voice low, thick with everything I felt.
“You think loving again means forgetting. But it don’t.
Ain’t nobody replacing your daughter, Xalori.
Not me. Not Ginger. Not this baby. You gon’ carry Aaliyah with you for the rest of your life. That’s love. That’s motherhood.”
I leaned in, letting my forehead rest against hers. “But that don’t mean you gotta stop living. It don’t mean you gotta stop loving.”
Her lips quivered. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
She exhaled, shaky and soft. “Unfair. Gentle. Whole. Real. I wasn’t ready for you.”
I smiled, slow and sure. “Nobody’s ever ready for the truth, Muffin. They just gotta stop running from it.”
I let my hand slide down, slow and deliberate, until it found the swell of her belly. Her body tensed, but I felt it—the shift. That quiet surrender.
“I’m yours,” I said, voice raw. “Every part of me. Every fuckin’ inch. And now, so is Ginger. So is this baby. You got me. All in. And I’m not going nowhere.”
She looked up, something breaking wide open in her chest. And when she kissed me, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.
It was hungry. It was claiming. It was hers.
I scooped her up in one smooth motion, her legs locking around my waist as I carried her to the bedroom like I’d been waiting years for this moment.
She gripped my face, fingers threading through my beard, dragging me back into another kiss like she needed to taste every fucking word I just said. I laid her down gently, but my movements were anything but calm.
I needed her. Not just to fuck. To feel. To anchor. To remind us both that this shit—us—was realer than anything we’d ever known.
She moaned as I kissed my way down her neck, her sundress already shoved up, my palms gripping the softness of her thighs like I owned them. And I did. She was mine. Fucking mine.
I dragged her panties down, slow, watching the way her chest rose and fell like she was trying to hold herself together. But I didn’t want her to.
I wanted her to break. For me. With me.
I slid inside her in one long, deep stroke, groaning low as her body welcomed me like she’d been waiting for this moment just as bad as I had.
“Eason,” she gasped, her nails clawing at my back.
“I got you,” I growled against her throat. “I always got you.”
I moved slow at first—deep, punishing strokes that had her gasping into my mouth, her legs trembling around my waist. But when her walls clenched, when her body arched, when she cried out my name with all that raw, bleeding need—I lost it.
I flipped her over, dragged her hips back to meet every brutal thrust, letting all the love, all the pain, all the claiming pour out of me in every snap of my hips.
“You’re mine,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “Say it.”
She choked on a sob. “I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Eason. I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”
Her body locked up and I felt her fall apart, shaking beneath me as her orgasm slammed through her. I followed right behind her, groaning against her shoulder as I filled her, marked her, sealed her fate all over again.
When it was over, I didn’t pull away. I wrapped my arms around her from behind, kissed her shoulder, and whispered against her damp skin.
“I love you, Muffin.”
We laid there for a long time. Her back pressed against my chest. My arm locked around her waist, my palm resting protectively over her stomach.
Her breathing had finally evened out, but her fingers still played absently with mine — soft, unsure, like she was still making sure I was real.
I pressed my lips to her shoulder, breathing her in. Home. That’s what she smelled like now. Not some fantasy. Not some prize. Just fucking home.
“You good, Muffin?” I whispered against her skin.
She hesitated — just a second — then nodded.
“Better than good,” she breathed.
A slow, satisfied smirk curled my mouth.
But deep in my chest, something still buzzed.
Because peace wasn’t permanent. Not in our world. Not when snakes were still lurking.
And I wasn’t stupid enough to think today was the end of the war. This was just the calm before it cracked wide open.
I was ready for whatever came next though.
Because now, I had something real to protect. And I’d tear this whole fucking world apart before I let anybody take it from me.