Chapter Twenty Xalori Carson
Hours later, the sheets were twisted, my skin was still humming, and the air was thick with him. The scent of Eason—leather, spice, sin—lingered in every pore like he’d marked me from the inside out.
My legs were sore. My lips were swollen. My entire body wore the aftershock of a man who fucked like he was born to break women open just to piece them back together gentler than they’d ever been touched before.
But more than any of that, my heart felt full. Not patched. Not halfway functioning. Not barely stitched together with duct tape and distractions. Full.
Like I wasn’t just surviving anymore, I was living. Breathing. Healing in real time.
By the time I dragged myself downstairs, the sun had shifted, golden light spilling through the windows like some kind of quiet reward.
I was barefoot in one of Eason’s oversized black tees—no bra, no fucks, and a fresh case of don’t ask me to move unless somebody’s bleeding.
Nas was already gone for school. Eason had kissed my forehead, slapped my ass, whispered something reckless in my ear, and dipped out to handle business. Which probably meant somewhere, some poor soul was getting pistol-whipped, and I wasn’t asking no damn questions.
Not today. Today, I was on some soft shit. And I wasn’t alone.
“Mamaaaa!”
That tiny voice cracked through the silence like music. High-pitched, messy, joyful, and pure.
Ginger came flying out of the living room in her bunny pajamas, curls wild as hell, tiny fists gripping a half-torn coloring book and a busted-up crayon like she had a mission.
“Mama, come color wif me!” she shouted, her sticky fingers wrapping around mine before I could blink.
I laughed and let her pull me toward the sunroom like I hadn’t just had my soul snatched out my body a few hours ago.
“Aight, boss baby. What we coloring?”
She plopped down cross-legged on the rug, flipping through the wrinkled pages like she was reviewing top-secret documents.
“You get da purple. I get da pink.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We sat there. No phones. No noise. Just crayons, apple slices, a cartoon blaring too loud, and Ginger’s nonstop chatter about pancakes, poop charts, and baby dolls that needed new dresses.
And I listened. Because this was the part nobody warned me about. Not the trauma. Not the grief. But the after.
The soft parts. The second chances. The kind of healing that sneaks up on you in quiet rooms, wrapped in toddler hugs and laughter that makes your ribs ache.
I paused mid-stroke, just watching her. The way her nose scrunched up when she focused. How she stuck her tongue out when she colored. The light in her eyes when she caught me smiling.
I didn’t birth her, but I was hers and she was mine.
No blood tie and no stretch marks to prove it.
But love don’t need paperwork. It needs presence.
And every second with Ginger was teaching me how to mother again.
How to live without guilt suffocating me, how to let joy in without feeling like I was betraying the past.
Without warning, she leaned over and kissed my cheek, sloppy and loud. “You da best Mama.”
Then she went right back to coloring like she hadn’t just cracked my heart wide open and poured sunlight into it. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them back, smiling through the sting. Because maybe I was the best Mama. Still learning. Still healing. But loved, all the way through it.
Ginger curled up in my lap somewhere between her third apple slice and her third episode of Princess Poppy and the Warrior Fairies. Her soft little snores puffed against my collarbone; her fingers still tangled in the hem of my shirt like she needed to hold onto me even in her dreams.
And I held her tight. I didn’t care that my leg was going numb. Or that I hadn’t eaten. Or that my phone kept vibrating with messages I wasn’t in the mood to answer. I just sat there and rocked her. The way I used to rock Aaliyah when she had trouble sleeping.
A breath caught in my throat, sharp and uninvited.
This wasn’t a replacement. This was a redemption.
I pressed my lips to Ginger’s forehead and whispered a silent prayer into her curls.
One of those shaky, half-desperate, half-thankful prayers I only ever said when the world felt too loud to survive.
I was just about to shift her off me and fix us both something to eat when a soft knock broke through the calm.
My body stilled. This knock wasn’t loud or aggressive.
It was the kind of knock that felt intentional, the kind you used when you didn’t want to be noticed.
I gently laid Ginger on the oversized floor pillow, wrapped her in a throw blanket, and crept toward the front door.
But when I checked the monitor, nobody was there.
It was just a small box, wrapped in brown paper.
I opened the door slowly and grabbed the box, shut the door with my foot, and locked it tight behind me. My chest was already tightening as I carried it to the kitchen. I unwrapped it like it might explode, each layer revealing more uneased than the last.
At the center was a manila envelope with no label and no seal. I quickly picked it up and opened it. And immediately, I felt my world shift.
Child Protective Services – Official Report
I didn’t breathe. I just flipped through the pages, each word slicing into me like a rusted blade.
Neglect.
Unstable household.
Unresolved grief.
Possible threat to children.
They were painting me as a danger, as unstable, and unfit. Like surviving my daughter’s death disqualified me from loving the children still breathing in front of me. Tears blurred the print, but I didn’t let them fall.
My knees buckled, but I stayed upright. Because this wasn’t just about hurting me. This was a warning. A setup. They want me to break.
I set the papers down with shaking hands, the edges crumpling beneath my fingers. A dry laugh slipped past my lips, brittle and humorless.
So, this was the play. Not an ambush in the streets. Not a messy fight. No guns, no fists, no threats shouted in the dark. No, this was smarter and dirtier.
Rip the mother down by questioning her love. Tear apart the only thing she still believed she could be good at.
A cold sweat broke across the back of my neck. I picked up my phone and called the one person I trusted with every broken, battered piece of me.
He answered on the second ring, voice sharp, instinct already kicking in.
“What’s wrong?”
I swallowed hard, my throat thick, voice barely there. “I need you to come home.”
His tone shifted immediately.
“What happened?”
I let one tear fall. “He’s trying to take him from me.”
Eason didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.
“I’m on my way.”
The front door slammed open minutes later, shaking the walls like a gunshot.
“Xalori!” His voice boomed through the house like a war drum, thick with violence. “Where you at?”
I met him in the hallway, barefoot in his tee, rage still pulsing hot and mean under my skin. The second his eyes landed on me, he scanned me head to toe, wild-eyed, like he was looking for blood. Like he was seconds from killing whoever put that crack in my voice.
“What happened? Where’s Ginger?”
Wordless, I shoved the envelope into his hands. He read it in silence. His jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap. His hands shook. His whole body went still, the kind of still that only came right before the storm hit.
“The fuck is this?” He muttered, voice low and sharp like a blade being drawn.
“They’re not just trying to ruin us,” I said quietly, my voice a cold, steady thing now. “They’re trying to split us down the middle.”
He lifted his gaze to mine, his whole body vibrating with fury.
“What?”
“Harmony wants Ginger. Prime wants Nas.” I met his eyes head-on. No fear. No cracks. Only fire.
“They’re not just coming for us, Eason. They’re coming for our kids.”
Something behind his eyes snapped.
“Nah,” he growled, voice so low and deadly it barely sounded human. “I’ll bury both of them first.”
I pressed my hand to his chest, grounding him even as my own body trembled.
“We don’t know if they’re working together.”
“They are,” he bit out. “Prime’s too fucking sloppy to pull this off on his own. And Harmony been plotting since the day she realized she ain’t got shit left to lose.”
He shook his head like he could physically toss the rage off his back, but it wasn’t going nowhere. It lived in his chest now. Same place it lived in mine.
I dropped down onto the couch, my hands digging into my curls, my heart pounding against my ribs like a war drum of its own.
“I can’t lose them, Eason. I can’t—”
He knelt in front of me, grabbed my hands, and forced me to look at him.
“You won’t,” he rasped. “I swear to God, Muffin, you won’t.”
He pressed his forehead to mine, our breathing synced, our rage braided together.
“I’ll torch this whole motherfucking city before I let them touch our family.” He whispered, and I knew he meant every bloodstained word.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. Gazing into his eyes, I found the part of myself that wasn’t just broken or grieving, but the part that was a goddamn weapon when it needed to be.
“I want to know everything,” I whispered.
His eyes searched mine.
“Are you sure?”
I tightened my grip on his hands.
“I’m not just gonna protect this family,” I said, my voice a blade now, cutting through the fear. “I’m going to war for it.”
And in that moment, I wasn’t just Eason’s woman. I wasn’t just Ginger’s mama. Or Nasir’s protector. Or the girl who’d lost too much and survived anyway.
I was the motherfucking storm.
And this Prime and Harmony, had no idea what was about to hit it.