The Blackline.
Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.
Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)
Part Ten
Ciénaga de Zapata, Cuba – 1762
The swamp was always watching.
Before there was Séraphine, there was only the girl in the veil.
Small, silent, wide-eyed.
Born under hurricane skies. Raised on the hum of the dead.
The women in her village said she had no cry when she was born—only a sigh, like air leaving the lungs of something that had drowned a long time ago. Her mother cut the cord with a chipped oyster shell and whispered, “La serpiente viene con ella.” The serpent comes with her.
By five, she could call the rain.
By ten, she could hear voices in still water.
By thirteen, she stitched her first spirit into bone.
And when her blood came, it came black. Thick and slow. A syrup of grief.
They called her niña de sombra. The shadow girl.
But her grandmother called her by a name no one else dared speak:
“Madrina del umbral.”
Godmother of the Threshold.
She made her first pact barefoot.
Out there, in the heart of the bayou—where mangrove roots kissed bone-white driftwood and the moon bled red through the trees—she laid out her offering:
A cracked mirror.
Three snake eggs.
And her own tongue-tip, sliced clean and buried under salt.
She didn’t speak for three years after that.
But when she did, the wind stilled to listen.
She didn’t die, though the pact had promised she might.
Instead, she came back slower.
Taller.
Eyes like bruises over candlelight.
Her reflection never stayed still again.
When they saw her raise a dead man with nothing but a kiss and a handful of graveyard dirt, they tried to drown her.
It didn’t work.
The river took her.
And then, it gave her back.
Naked.
Smiling.
Wrapped in black seaweed like lace.
She walked out of the bayou with a snake curled around her neck and blood between her legs—her last tie to humanity leaving her body drop by drop.
She was Séraphine now. Not a girl. Not quite woman.
Something older. Something unfinished.
She came to Louisiana by storm.
The ship never reached the port.
All they found was a lifeboat, a mirror, and bones shaped like prayer hands.
By the time she arrived in New Orleans, the air behind her stank of salt, soot, and strange songs.
Men followed her.
Women warned of her.
Midwives refused to deliver babies on nights she passed through town.
They said she never touched the ground.
Séraphine set up her altar in the ruins of a burned chapel, deep in the wet belly of the Atchafalaya Basin. She never begged for followers. She never asked for devotion.
But the desperate came.
The dying came.
The ones who wanted their lovers back. The ones who wanted someone dead. The ones who needed to know if the baby was theirs.
They came—and they paid.
In blood.
In memory.
In flesh.
Some say she’s still there. Some say she never was.
But Séraphine? She left long ago.
And now, in the year of our despair, she rides the breath of a man called Felix Vaughn—a gangster playing god with matchsticks in his hand.
He thinks he summoned her.
But Séraphine isn’t summoned.
She arrives when the wind gets too quiet.
When the dead start whispering names.
When someone in the dark begins to dream too loud.
And somewhere, deep inside a juke joint glowing with jazz and secrets,
a girl named Violet is dreaming of bees.
The veil has begun to thin.
And Séraphine is already watching.
Arrival in Little Rock
The train pulled into Little Rock just after midnight.
No one noticed the woman who stepped off last—barefoot, veiled, dressed in black from throat to heel. She moved like a shadow that forgot to fade. No ticket stub. No luggage. Just the hum of heat behind her and the smell of saltwater where there shouldn’t be any.
She passed through the station like fog through rafters.
People looked—but not at her. Their eyes skated past, watering.
Behind her, the conductor collapsed.
They said it was heat stroke.
But his mouth was full of bees.
Felix Vaughn’s safehouse was quiet that night.
Too quiet.
He’d sent his men home early. Something about the air felt tight, like a held breath waiting to be broken. He sat in the back room, surrounded by maps, ledgers, and the scent of cheap cigars. His fingers drummed the table like he was keeping time with a song only he could hear.
Then the candle flickered.
And the air turned sweet.
She stepped through the door like she’d always owned it.
Didn’t knock. Didn’t announce. Just entered—slow, quiet, intentional.
The room changed.
The walls leaned in.
The light grew gold and thick, like syrup and decay.
Felix stood too fast, reaching for the pistol on the table.
He didn’t make it.
Her voice stopped him before her hand ever moved.
“You ain’t gone need that, cher. Not with me. Not if you want what you came into this world wantin’.”
Her accent was soft but rooted. Louisiana heavy with something older curled beneath it.
She looked him over like she already knew where the rot was hiding in his ribs.
“Who sent you?” he asked, chin tilted, bravado forced.
The pistol stayed under his palm.
She tilted her head, veil catching the candlelight.
“Nobody sent me. But I heard you been prayin’. Might not’a used no altar, no rosary…but your fear? Your want? That’s prayer enough.”
She crossed the room without sound.
No footsteps.
No breath.
When she stood in front of him, Felix felt something shift inside him. Like something ancient and wet coiled around his spine.
She didn’t touch him.
She didn’t have to.
“I know about them twins,” she whispered, “The ones come back from Chicago. Opened that place. The Blackline. Folks singin’ their names like they carved the Delta with they bare hands.”
He didn’t blink.
She leaned closer, voice velvet-thick, “I know you want what they got. Power. Land. Respect. Fear. You want to gut the heart outta what they built, hold it high like a trophy, and finally—finally—be the man they ain’t never let you become.”
Felix’s breath caught in his throat.
Because it was true.
Every word.
She smiled like she’d tasted it in him. Something raw and sour, “I can give it to you. All of it. Their empire. Their blood. Their end.”
Felix found his voice again, “And what do you want in return?”
Séraphine didn’t answer right away.
She walked past him, trailing the tips of her fingers across his ledgers, his maps, his weapons like she was measuring the weight of his world.
Then, softly, “Just a place to rest my bones. A name here and there. And access…to what’s inside.”
“Inside what?”
She smiled beneath her veil, “You’ll know when the time come.”
That night, the deal was struck in blood and bourbon. Felix thought he was the one holding the leash.
But Séraphine never knelt.
She only bowed when it was time to strike.
Outside, thunder rolled over the rooftops.
But Séraphine had already turned her face to the wind.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Something was shifting. Not yet here, but on its way. She saw her before she ever arrived. A girl wrapped in honey light, hair braided in prayer, with dreams that dripped prophecy onto cotton sheets.
She wasn’t in Little Rock yet.
Not now.
Not quite.
But Séraphine knew she’d come.
And when she did, Séraphine would be waiting—
veil in place, charm bag open, teeth sharp.
“Lula-Bee,” she whispered to the dark.
“You gone be the sweetest thing I ever ruined.”
Stack’s office was dense with heat and secrets….
Present Day—1929
The desk lamp buzzed faintly, casting warm light across scattered papers, folded maps, and half-emptied glasses. Smoke leaned back on the edge of the desk, his white tank stretched across his chest, a slow pulse ticking in his jaw. He hadn’t said much in the last few minutes, and that said everything.
Odessa stood before them, still wrapped in her deep plum dressing robe. Her arms were crossed, one glossy thigh peeking from the slit in her robe as she shifted her weight. Her nails tapped against her elbow as she spoke, her voice velvet but edged with thorn.
“I’ve done it before,” she said, low, “Plenty of times. Slipped into rooms y’all couldn’t. Got answers no man could get. I know how to play my part, Stack. You know that.”
Stack didn’t answer right away.
He rolled a toothpick across his tongue, eyes dragging lazily from her legs to her eyes, “Ain’t sayin’ you don’t know how,” he muttered, “I’m sayin’ it might not be the right time.”
Odessa stepped closer, ignoring the subtle warning in his tone.
“You think this Séraphine woman playin’ soft?” she asked, “You think she don’t already got ears planted? I’ve heard some of the names being passed around. Pine Bluff, Crossett…I ain’t stupid, Stack.”
Smoke exhaled sharply through his nose. Not loud. But enough to pull her gaze. He was still as a statue. Arms folded. Shadow caught in his collarbone. His dark eyes were on Stack now not her. A silent conversation passed between the brothers.
Smoke’s brow twitched. Just once. But it said enough:
This ain’t the time. This ain’t the job.
Stack sucked on the toothpick and leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked.
“We appreciate it, baby girl,” he said, easy and smooth, “But this one’s off the table for you.”
Odessa blinked. Her lips parted, then pressed into a pout, “Y’all worried I’m not ready?”
“Worried you might not come back,” Smoke finally said. His voice was low. Final.
Odessa’s lashes fluttered. For a moment, her charm cracked. She was used to getting her way. Especially with Stack. And even when Smoke kept his distance, he usually didn’t deny her.
“You really think I’m not cut for this?” she asked, softer now, “After everything I done?”
Stack sat forward. The toothpick hit the ashtray with a soft clink, “It ain’t that. It’s what we don’t know.”
“And what she knows,” Smoke added, his voice like slow smoke curling through a vent, “And who’s already watchin’ us.”
Odessa’s eyes darted between them, “So you just gone leave me in the dark?”
“We leavin’ you alive,” Stack said.
That landed.
Odessa’s mouth twitched, an almost-smile, almost-snarl. She turned on her heel with a dramatic swish of silk and started toward the door, but paused at the threshold. Her eyes glittered as they cut back over her shoulder.
“Just remember,” she said, voice sweet as rot, “when shit gets sticky, I was the one who offered to step in. Don’t come knockin’ when the house catch fire.” Her voice had lost the silk it usually wore, “I’ve done it before. You both know I can handle it. You need somebody who knows how to move quiet. Slip in and out.”
“You ain’t hearing me,” Stack said, voice cool, “This ain’t like last time. This one different.”
Smoke didn’t speak. Just leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, eyes shadowed and sharp. The look he shot Stack across the table said everything:
This is too risky. We still don’t know what the hell we’re up against.
Stack caught it. Nodded once.
Then turned to Odessa, “We said no.”
Odessa’s jaw clenched, “So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She looked between them, her painted mouth twitching, as if she wanted to press harder but then something shifted.
Her eyes flicked toward the door.
Toward the figure just beyond it.
Violet.
The crack in the doorway was barely a sliver, but enough. The light from the desk lamp sliced across Violet’s bare legs, her robe, the soft outline of her silhouette.
She’d heard it all.
Odessa’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. And for just a moment, she forgot all about the job.
“Well, ain’t she precious,” Odessa said, dragging her words like honey over broken glass. She turned slightly, addressing Smoke with mock sweetness, “You keepin’ her real close these days, huh?”
Smoke didn’t move. His jaw was tight. His stare—dead on Violet now.
Violet didn’t blink. She didn’t step back.
Odessa tilted her head at Violet, eyes narrowing with something sharp and smug, “You might wanna teach your lil’ shadow there not to eavesdrop.”
Stack shifted in his chair, “Ode…”
She raised her hands in mock surrender, “I’m gone.”
Violet was still standing there. Still quiet. Unphased by Odessa as her eyes were locked in on Smoke’s. Odessa gave her a once-over—slow, deliberate, head to toe. Then leaned in with a whisper meant to be just low enough for the brothers not to catch.
“You better learn how to listen, baby girl. But more important than that…know when to leave.”
And then she was gone. Robe trailing behind her like smoke.
The door eased shut.
Stack let out a long breath, then leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs.
“She gon’ stay mad,” he said casually, but there was a flicker in his eyes.
Smoke didn’t respond. Didn’t move.
He was still watching the door.
beyond it.
At Violet.
Violet stepped in quietly, barefoot, her robe still slightly parted at the thigh. But the look on her face had nothing soft in it. No flirt, no smile. Just something tight and flickering behind her eyes.
Stack straightened, “You alright, baby?”
She nodded once. Then looked at Smoke.
“I need to tell y’all somethin’,” Violet said, voice low, almost hoarse.
Smoke didn’t hesitate. He moved to her, brushing a hand along her arm, but she stepped gently out of his reach and turned toward the desk.
“I been havin’ dreams,” she said, “But this one tonight—it was different. It ain’t feel like no dream.”
Stack leaned forward, elbows on his knees now.
Smoke’s brow furrowed, “What’d you see?”
Violet swallowed. Her fingers twisted together.
“There was a woman,” she said, “Standin’ in water. Not walkin’ on it—standin’ in it like it rose up to meet her. She wore a violet silk gown…her hair was floatin’ around her shoulders like it had its own current.” She paused. Her voice wavered, “She had no face.”
Stack’s eyes narrowed.
Violet went on, “She started hummin’. Somethin’ low and old. Sounded like it came from inside me. Like I heard it before I was even born. Then she lifted her hand…and pointed at The Blackline. At this place.”
Smoke’s hand curled into a fist against the desk.
“She didn’t say nothin’,” Violet whispered, “But I felt it. Like a bell ringin’ behind my eyes. A feelin’ that said: Something’s comin’. And y’all not ready.”
The silence that followed that was bone-deep.
Stack stood up slowly, cracking his knuckles like he needed to move the tension out of his body.
“You sure it was The Blackline?” he asked, voice quiet.
“I know it was,” Violet said, “I saw the green lamp in the window. The one by the piano.”
Smoke finally looked at her—really looked.
His voice was soft, but not gentle, “Why you ain’t say nothin’ before?”
Violet’s eyes filled, but she held them back, “I didn’t wanna sound crazy. And I didn’t wanna make you worry.”
“You already done worried me,” he said roughly, but his hand came to her waist anyway. Anchoring her.
Stack looked between them, then turned back to the desk, “Séraphine,” he muttered.
Violet flinched, “That’s the name Odessa said just now. I heard her.”
“That ain’t the first time we heard it,” Stack said, voice low, “Mercy dropped that name when she came through the other night. Been tryna’ find out more on her.”
Smoke’s jaw ticked.
Violet stepped closer, placing her hand on the desk, knuckles tense, “I think…I think she’s the woman in the dream.”
Stack and Smoke locked eyes. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just smoke and mirrors anymore. It had a name.
The office felt colder after Violet finished speaking. Like the dream she described had left a draft behind. Violet stood near the desk, her fingers curled tight in the edge of her robe. She kept glancing toward the door like she expected someone to slip through it, or worse, something. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor, but her unease filled the room like a fourth presence. Stack sank back into his chair with a long exhale, rubbing both hands down his face.
“We got names,” he said, voice hoarse with fatigue and worry, “but not answers.”
Smoke didn’t sit. He stayed leaning over the desk, broad shoulders bowing the lamplight around him. The vein in his forearm pulsed like a warning signal.
“We know she’s workin’ wit’ Felix.” His jaw clenched as he spoke the name, “Some kinda witch, they say. But what for? Why now? Felix ain’t never been smart enough to partner with somebody like her unless she playing him.”
Violet’s voice came quiet, almost threadbare, “She don’t need a reason like a man would. Some folks do evil just to leave a mark.”
The words hung there soft, but sharp as a hook. Nobody spoke for a while after that. The office ticked with the sound of the green banker’s lamp humming, and outside, a storm began to tap against the far window, droplets of rain hitting glass like fingernails. Smoke straightened slowly, pressing both palms flat to the desk. His shadow stretched long across the papers hauntingly.
“I’m done waiting.” He gritted.
Stack’s head lifted, “What you mean?”
Smoke’s eyes were dark. Not wild, not panicked, but the kind of controlling anger he only showed when something shook him deeper than he wanted to admit.
“We go to Mercy tomorrow. Together. Pay the Swansong a lil’ visit.” He didn’t blink, “No more hints. No more riddles. She know more than she’s sayin’, and I’m not lettin’ this shit creep closer to Violet without answers, Stack.”
At her name, Violet looked up, throat tight. Smoke’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t.
She swallowed. Then she said, “I want to come.”
Smoke’s reaction was instant. A hard, violent stillness.
“No.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. His voice had edges.
Violet stepped forward, robe shifting around her legs, “I need to.”
Smoke’s breath flared, his nostrils tightening. He turned toward her fully now, shoulders squared, every line of him screaming protective.
“Violet, you not walkin’ into no swamp of hoodoo and half-truths just ’cause you dream somethin’ that scared you.”
“That ain’t why,” she whispered, “I think…I think I’m supposed to.”
Stack watched her carefully. Watched Smoke even more. Then he shifted, sitting forward, elbows planted on his knees, “Maybe she should.”
Smoke snapped his glare to him, “Stack—”
“If the dreams keep comin’,” Stack went on calmly, “they might mean more than we think. They might help us clock something we can’t see yet. Something we’d miss.”
Violet didn’t move, didn’t breathe wrong, she just stared between the brothers, heart hammering through her ribs. Smoke’s glare held on Stack for a long, tense moment. Dark. Sharp. Protective to the point of violence. Then, slowly, he exhaled.
“Fine,” he said, the word scraped, “We’ll leave at dusk.” He finally looked at Violet, and the anger in him didn’t disappear it rerouted itself, wrapping around her like a shield, “But you stay close,” he said, voice low and absolute, “You don’t go nowhere I can’t reach.”
Violet nodded once.
And just like that, the air in the room shifted again. Not relief, not fear, but anticipation. Something was coming and now all three of them felt it.
The hallway was hushed, save for the low creak of floorboards and the distant hush of rain. Violet walked just ahead of Smoke, her robe trailing lightly over the wood. His hand hovered near the small of her back, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him there, like a promise. They drifted into the kitchen like ghosts too restless for bed. The light over the stove glowed dim gold, casting long shadows against the tiled walls. The air smelled of fresh ginger, warm flour, and cut herbs. The kind of scent that wrapped itself around your shoulders and made you feel something like safe.
Aunt Pearl was at the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, dusted in flour like snow. She was kneading dough with slow, practiced motions, her hip cocked to one side as she reached for a bundle of thyme.
She didn’t look up right away. Just said, “Didn’t expect to see y’all ’fore sunrise.” Her voice was even, but her eyes flicked sharp toward them a beat later.
Smoke grunted softly. Violet stepped further into the room, hugging herself.
“I can’t sleep,” she admitted.
Pearl didn’t press. She didn’t have to. She looked at Violet a long moment, the lines around her eyes softening. Then she turned to the stove and reached for the black kettle already humming low on the back burner.
“Sit down,” she said, not unkindly, “Ain’t nothin’ that can’t be eased with the right brew.”
Smoke took the chair at the far end of the table, body still coiled tight beneath his tank top. Violet settled next to him, thighs touching just barely. He glanced down at the spot where their knees brushed, then looked away, jaw ticking. Pearl moved with her usual grace. Quiet feet, sure hands. She dropped sprigs of lemon balm and lavender into two hand-painted mugs, their rims chipped from years of use, then poured the hot water in slow, steady streams. The scent rose like a hush. She placed one in front of Violet, then leaned to kiss Smoke’s cheek before handing him the other.
“Don’t act like I don’t see it on your face,” she said to him, “You wound up like a top.”
Smoke kissed her cheek back, muttering, “You always see too much.”
Violet gave a small smile, “Thank you,” she said softly.
Pearl just touched her shoulder, fingers warm and grounding. Then, with that same touch, she brushed Violet’s cheek, a gentle, almost mothering gesture.
“Sometimes dreams come knockin’ for a reason,” Pearl spoke softly, voice dropping low with knowing, “The trick is knowin’ who’s doin’ the knockin’.”
The silence that followed was full not empty. Smoke and Violet sat close in the flickering hush of the kitchen, the weight of the night still heavy on their shoulders, but momentarily eased by steam and presence. They drank quietly, letting the warmth settle deep. Pearl rinsed her hands, wiped them on her apron, then gathered the dough into a cloth and tied it shut. She glanced at them one last time, eyes lingering on Violet, then Smoke. Something unreadable passed behind her gaze.
“I’m leavin’ the rest on the stove,” she said, “Y’all go on. Get some rest while you can.”
And then she was gone, the soft pat of her feet retreating up the back stairs.
Smoke and Violet stayed seated, neither making a move.
The quiet in the kitchen settled like a blanket, heavy but not suffocating. Rain tapped softly at the windowpanes now, steadier than before. A clock ticked. The lavender tea steamed gently from their mugs.
Smoke didn’t look at her yet. He stared at the table, one finger tracing the rim of his cup, slow and aimless. The kind of movement men made when their mind was walking through ghosts.
Then he said it, low, like it had been waiting at the back of his throat for years.
“I ever tell you about our father?”
Violet looked at him, lips parted. He went on without waiting.
“Adam Moore. Ain’t worth the name. People ‘round The Delta still whisper ‘bout him like he a shadow from the crossroads that might come back. He ain’t. I made sure of that.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, but his voice stayed quiet. That made it worse somehow, “He beat Stack the most. Blamed him for our momma dying. Said he smiled too much. Laughed too much. Called him soft ‘cause he took longer in the bathroom fixin’ his hair. Or if his shirt matched his pants. Truth is, Stack always had more joy in him than I did. Still do, made sure of that.”
Violet stayed still, fingers curled around her mug.
“One time he hit him so bad, I thought Stack’s eye would fall out his damn head. I sat there, fifteen years old, gun on my lap, waitin’ for him to come back through that door. Knew if he did, I’d shoot. I didn’t care no more.” He breathed in through his nose, sharp, controlled, “But he didn’t come back that night. Few years later, he did. And I finished what I started.”
Violet reached across the table, laid her hand lightly on his forearm. Smoke didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked toward her touch like it might burn.
“That’s why I joined the war,” he spoke, “Get Stack outta here. Prove somethin’ to myself. Maybe die with a flag over me instead of a prison blanket.” He exhaled, deep and slow, and the sound of it was hollow, “Didn’t die, though. Just learned how to kill better. Trench mud in Germany. Couldn’t sleep for years without smellin’ the rot. Still can’t, sometimes.”
Violet’s breath hitched, but she stayed quiet, letting him speak.
“Even there, in that hell, I protected him. Slept with my back to his, finger on the trigger. I’d lay my body down first before I let somethin’ touch him.” He paused, looking at his tea like he couldn’t remember what it was, “When we came home…we thought maybe we could be normal. But you know the South don’t forgive boys like us. So we went up to Chicago.” His mouth curled, not into a smile, but something like it. Bitter, “Got mixed up with the Irish mob, then the Outfit. Stack with the Italians. Me with the micks. They thought we was one man for a long, long time. We let ‘em. Worked both sides, pullin’ doubles— muscle, collections, getaways. They never knew we was twins.”
Violet blinked slowly, lips parting. She’d heard stories, whispers, but never like this.
“Then we planned it. The heist. Robbed both crews blind—money, liquor, jewels. Everything in motion like a dance. But it caught up fast. Real fast. North Side blamed South Side. South Side blamed ghosts. Bodies started droppin’. Good people too.” He looked up then. Eyes darker than she’d ever seen them, “No sleep. No mercy. Stack took a bullet to the gut. I thought I lost him.”
Violet’s fingers tensed around his wrist.
“There was a woman…back then,” he added. The words came with effort, “Her name was Celestine Jones.” His gaze turned distant, voice low, “She was the kind folks stared at when she walked into a room. Short bob, fox stole, diamond anklet. Used to dance like her heels was on fire and her heart didn’t weigh nothin’.” He gave a soft, humorless chuckle, “Ran her mouth too. Slick. Pretty. Thought she had me pegged from day one.”
Violet stayed quiet, sensing this memory came carved in bone.
“She was trouble,” Smoke said, “But she never blinked when I told her who I really was. What I’d done. She ain’t flinch. Just lit her cigarette and said, ‘Ain’t no such thing as a clean man in Chicago, baby. But I like the way you lie about it.’” He paused, the warmth in his voice fading, “She got caught in the crossfire. Wrong alley. Wrong time. Somebody tryin’ to send a message, but I was the one that got read.”
Violet’s fingers moved toward his instinctively, covering his hand.
“That was the first time I prayed,” he said quietly, “Ain’t done it since.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It ached. He looked at Violet now. Really looked at her.
“If somethin’ ever happened to you…” The muscles in his neck tightened like piano wire, “I’ll raise hell, Violet. You hear me? I’ll burn this whole city down. I ain’t felt still since the war. Since Stack almost died. But the moment I saw you…” He swallowed, “You made me stop runnin’. Made me breathe.”
Violet’s eyes welled. Her thumb stroked a line along his wrist.
“You mine now,” he said simply, “Ain’t nobody takin’ you from me.”
She nodded slowly, tears slipping quiet down her cheeks.
“I don’t wanna be taken.”
Smoke leaned in then, gently. The kind of gentle that only came from a man who rarely allowed himself to be soft. His lips touched her forehead. Then the side of her cheek. Then her mouth. Not hungry. Not claiming. Just quiet. When he pulled back, the storm outside had begun to fade as if the sky itself had been listening. They stood slowly, still hand in hand. Took their cups. And went to bed together. Not for heat, not for sex. But for the kind of sleep you only fall into after outrunning ghosts.
The bedroom was still.
Violet lay curled beneath the sheets, her back to Smoke’s chest, his arm draped across her waist like a shield. His breathing was steady but his hand twitched now and then, like even in sleep he was keeping watch. The rain had softened to mist, tapping gently at the windows like fingers too polite to knock.
Violet’s lashes fluttered. Her breath caught. And just like that, she slipped under.
The dream didn’t bloom, it arrived. Fully formed.
She was barefoot. Her robe was gone, and her body wore something soft and white, almost like linen soaked in honey. Her curls were loose, clinging to her shoulders as if kissed by dew. She stood in the center of a vast field. Grass rose to her hips, swaying gently, but there was no wind. Just motion. As if the earth itself was breathing. The sky above was colorless, not grey, not blue, just…waiting. Violet turned in place, her toes sinking into warm soil. There was no sound but the grass and the faintest hum in the distance—low and constant, like wings beating behind a veil.
Then she felt it. She was being watched.
A shape emerged across the field. Not walking, but present. Like it had always been there and only just now revealed itself.
Her grandmother.
She was regal in her stillness, standing tall in her deep indigo dress, the folds of it pooling around her bare feet. Her headwrap was white as bone, tied high like a crown. Her skin glowed like sun-warmed bronze, and her eyes —those familiar eyes—saw straight through Violet’s flesh, down to the marrow.
Violet’s throat closed.
“Grandma?” she whispered.
The woman didn’t move right away. Just looked her over.
Then, “Lula-Bee.”
The sound of it made Violet’s chest tighten. The sound of it coming from her grandmother’s mouth reminded her of those humid afternoons on the porch, shelling peas and listening to stories that weren’t just stories. The old woman stepped forward, and as she walked, bees rose from the grass. Dozens of them—golden, fat, and slow. They buzzed around Violet’s arms, her thighs, her collarbone. Landed there. Rested there.
But none of them stung.
Just crawled—lazily, lovingly—over her skin like they belonged to her. Violet trembled, but didn’t move. Her grandmother’s voice cut through the hum like a blade wrapped in silk.
“You lettin’ sweetness spill out so fast, baby…the jar gone empty.”
Violet’s lips parted. She tried to speak—to explain—but she couldn’t find the words.
“Don’t give all your sweetness away, Lula-Bee.”
The bees buzzed louder now, a rhythm building behind her ears. Violet reached up to brush them away, but her hands came back sticky. Coated in thick, glistening honey. It dripped from her forearms, clung to the inside of her thighs.
She looked behind her.
There was a glass jar tipped on its side in the grass. The last of its honey oozed out in a golden trail. Empty now. Glinting. Her breath caught. Her grandmother hadn’t moved.
She was watching. Quiet. Knowing.
Violet’s voice finally broke through, “Is it Smoke? Am I—am I giving too much?”
Her grandmother didn’t answer directly. She stepped closer, lifted one hand, and pressed it to Violet’s chest. The bees circled higher now, spinning in slow loops above their heads.
“You are light,” the woman said softly, “But don’t mistake your glow for something meant to be taken. Your gift ain’t a gift to everyone. And not every mouth deserve to taste your gold.”
Violet blinked, eyes burning, “I love him,” she whispered.
“I know,” the old woman said, “But love don’t mean lay yourself bare until there’s nothin’ left to protect.”
She leaned in, and her scent—sage, orange blossom, river clay—hit Violet like a memory.
“Hold somethin’ back,” she whispered, “For you. For what’s comin’.”
Violet opened her mouth to ask what that meant—
The bees stopped. Just…froze. Then dropped. All of them. Falling to the ground like petals, like ash. The grass around her went still. Then it flattened. Pressed low as if something was coming beneath it. Crawling under the soil.
She turned back—
Her grandmother was gone. Not walked away. Not faded.
Just…gone.
The jar behind her shattered with a soundless crack.
Violet gasped awake.
Smoke stirred behind her instantly, his hand tightening around her waist, his chest rising faster now, “Vee?”
She didn’t answer. She just lay there, shaking softly, staring at the dark wall. Bees still buzzing in her ears. Honey still clinging to her skin, at least in memory.
She swallowed hard, then whispered to herself.
“Don’t give it all away…”
The morning sunlight broke through the curtains in soft ribbons, hazy and golden.
Violet sat cross-legged on her bed, hair loosely pinned back, a cotton robe belted around her waist. Her journal lay open across her thighs, the pages already half-filled in her neat, looping script. She paused between lines, staring out the window toward the faint rustle of trees beyond.
The mug on her nightstand had long gone cold.
She dipped her pen again, hesitated, then wrote:
“Last night, I dreamed of her again. But this time, she wasn’t warning me about Séraphine. She was warning me about myself. My giving. My sweetness. My love.”
Her lips pressed into a thoughtful line.
“I’m in love with him. I know I am. Smoke ain’t soft. He ain’t easy. But he’s real. He makes me feel… grounded, even when everything around me spinning. It terrifies me, how deep this runs already.”
She tapped the pen against the paper.
Just then, a knock.
But barely a second passed before the door cracked open.
“Oooooh Violet,” Peaches sang in that soft Georgia drawl of hers, “you up? Don’t act like you sleepin’, girl we know that robe ain’t even wrinkled.”
Violet looked up, startled then quickly closed the journal and tucked it beneath a pillow. Cordelia slid in behind Peaches, all hips, legs and attitude, wearing a silk robe the color of black cherries. She had a single cigarette tucked behind her ear and an amused smirk already forming. And trailing behind them in socks and a too-large nightshirt was Minnie, grinning like a cat who knew where the milk was hidden.
“We need details,” Cordelia said, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, “And not the sweet kind.”
Peaches giggled, “Mmhmm. We seen how you been walkin’, Lula-Bee.”
Violet blushed instantly, “Why y’all like this?”
“‘Cause we your sisters and we nosy,” Minnie said, climbing onto the foot of the bed like a child. “Now tell the truth! He tearin’ that coochie up or what?”
Violet gasped, covering her face.
“Girl, come on now,” Cordelia said with a deep laugh, “we all know Smoke fine as hell but silent killers always got the worst mouths in bed. The filthy kind. So what he be sayin’ to you, huh?”
Peaches leaned in, her sandy curls bouncing, “He be talkin’ nasty while he stroke? Hittin’ it slow and deep like you owe him money?”
“Oh my God!” Violet squeaked, laughing into her hands, trying to hide her glowing face.
Minnie waved her hand, “Mmmhm. You been floatin’ around here like a whole different woman. You glidin’, girl. Glidin’. Got a little arch in your step now.”
“And that skin,” Peaches added, “glowin’ like you sleep in coconut oil and orgasms.”
“I do sleep,” Violet muttered, but her smile betrayed her, She lowered her hands, cheeks flushed, and said softly, “He…takes his time. Makes me feel like he’s been waitin’ for me.”
Cordelia’s brow rose, “Damn.”
Peaches grinned, melting a little, “That’s sweet. Now tell us the nasty version.”
They all burst into laughter.
Violet shook her head, eyes shining, “Y’all really ain’t right.”
“No, baby,” Cordelia said, dragging her fingers through her shoulder-length curls, “we just proud of you. You bloomin’. Don’t think we ain’t see it.”
Violet tilted her head, “See what?”
Minnie leaned forward, “How you carryin’ yourself now. Not just the coochie strut—though it’s there, baby, it’s there—but you lookin’ at folks in the eye. Smilin’ softer. Talkin’ stronger.”
“You more you,” Peaches added, “And that’s what a real man supposed to bring out. Not change you. Just… unwrap what already been waitin’.”
Cordelia stepped closer and flicked her hand gently beneath Violet’s chin, “But don’t lose your damn head. We like this you. Don’t let nobody pull you too far into their shadow.”
The words made Violet pause. Her fingers rested on the pillow under which her journal was hidden.
“I won’t,” she said, voice quiet but sure, “Not this time.”
The girls all exchanged a look—then Minnie said, “Alright. That’s enough soft shit.”
Peaches giggled, “Y’all wanna get breakfast or y’all just gonna keep makin’ her blush?”
Cordelia lit her cigarette and opened the window, “Both.”
morning light was just starting to filter through the cracked window of the back apothecary room, casting thin gold across the floorboards. The scent inside was sharp—white vinegar, dried sage, lavender oil, and something metallic beneath it all. Bottles glinted on narrow shelves, lined up like soldiers. Miss Isadora Maye was already in motion, moving between jars, sleeves rolled up, silver hair pinned under a navy scarf. Her long fingers moved with a rhythm born from years of knowing exactly what needed doing before anyone asked.
Stack stepped in without knocking. Didn’t need to.
“Mornin’, Miss Maye.”
Isadora didn’t look up from her mortar, “Mornin’, Elias. You come creepin’ like you don’t run the place.”
“I don’t run this room,” he said, leaning a shoulder to the doorframe.
She smirked but didn’t pause, grinding something bitter into powder, “That’s correct.”
He reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a small folded pouch, tied in red cord. Dropped it onto the prep table with a soft thump. Isadora paused. Eyed it. Eyed him.
“That’s more than the usual.”
“It’s a little heavy this week,” he said, “I need extra remedies. Girls been stressin’. Somebody’s cycle late. I want you to keep eyes on her.”
Isadora slowly untied the pouch, fingers practiced. The weight inside was clean—crisp bills and silver coins, no fluff.
“Who?”
“Alma Rose,” Stack said, arms folded, “The new one from Pine Bluff. Just turned twenty. Quiet, sweet. Got a smile like she don’t know what it cost to have it.”
Isadora exhaled softly through her nose, “The little thick one with the light eyes? She barely speaks.”
“And barely eats,” Stack said, “She said she was crampin’ two days ago but still took her appointments. Told Pearl she didn’t want to be a burden.”
Isadora clicked her tongue, “That ain’t no burden. That’s a child tryin’ not to get thrown out.”
“She’s not gettin’ thrown nowhere,” Stack said, firm, “But I can’t have her scared to speak up. I’m payin’ you to see what they don’t say.”
Isadora gave a slow nod. Took the pouch and tucked it into her satchel, “You want me to give her a flush just in case?”
“If you think she needs it,” he said, “Don’t scare her. But don’t let her lie through a missed moon, neither.”
She moved to the cabinet and took out a brown bottle and a paper-wrapped herb packet, “This one here’s milder. Raspberry leaf, pennyroyal, wild carrot seed. Two cups a day. I’ll steep the first one for her myself.”
She handed it over, and Stack tucked it into the crook of his arm.
“You tell her it’s from you?”
“No,” Isadora said, voice quiet, “She’ll know it’s from you. She just won’t say it.”
Stack gave her a tight nod, “That’s fine.”
Isadora arched a brow, “You always been softer than you act, boy.”
He smiled a little at that, “Don’t let that get around.”
She smirked. “I won’t. Long as you keep payin’ me like I run the place.”
“In this room?” he said, turning to go, “You do.”
The front lights of The Blackline were dimmed, the doors locked, and the music silenced. The scent of rouge, cigarettes, and sweet oil still hung in the air, but the girls were out of their silks and corsets now, barefoot in robes, sitting on velvet couches, braids loose, stockings half-rolled down. Stack stood near the front of the parlor with a matchstick hanging from the corner of his mouth, arms crossed, coat draped over one shoulder. A record hissed faintly in the background, but nobody danced. Not for clients. This was house business.
Cordelia leaned against the stair banister, arms folded, black silk robe tied tight at the waist. Aunt Pearl stood near the hallway, shell earrings swinging gently as she stirred her cup.
The girls—Violet, Clarisse, Liza June, Odessa, Peaches, Lana, newer girls—sat scattered around the room. A few yawned. A few watched Stack closely, like they knew something important was about to be said.
Stack gave the room a once-over, then spoke.
“Alright, y’all. End-of-month protocol’s startin’ tonight.”
A few groans.
“Don’t start,” Stack said calmly, “This ain’t punishment. This is protection.” He took the matchstick out his mouth and pointed it like a slow baton, “Everybody gets checked. Ain’t no exceptions. That mean you—yes, even if you just finished your moon, or you think your last client was clean. I don’t trust nothin’ but Isadora’s hands and Pearl’s word.”
Miss Isadora stepped in just then, wrapped in a linen shawl and smelling like sassafras and cedar. She offered a small smile to the room, “Evenin’, girls. Don’t worry, I brought the warm towels this time.”
The girls chuckled softly, easing some of the tension.
Stack nodded toward her, “She’ll be settin’ up in the green room. You’ll go one by one. Cordelia’s got the list.”
Cordelia lifted a clipboard, tapped it, “If you don’t hear your name first, don’t wander far. This ain’t social hour. Let's get through it so we can all get ready for work.”
Stack took a breath, then started walking the room slowly. His tone softened, “If somethin’ feel off…if you been hurtin’, feelin’ sick, feelin’ wrong—you tell her. Or you tell me. Or Cordelia. Ain’t nobody gon’ shame you here.” His gaze moved to each girl in turn. He didn’t touch. Didn’t stare. Just…looked. Made sure they saw him seeing them, “If any man pushin’ up on you in ways you don’t like, pressin’ for raw, offerin’ extra for what you don’t wanna give —you bring that to me. We ain’t in the business of servin’ dogs.”
A murmur of agreement rose from the girls.
“You got the right to stop a session cold,” Stack continued, “I don’t care how much they payin’. You ain’t furniture. You got say-so.”
Aunt Pearl finally spoke from behind her teacup, “And if you don’t speak up, baby, that don’t mean we won’t see it on you.”
Cordelia chimed in next, voice cool and clear, “Me and Pearl restocked the supply room,” she said. “Condoms, sponges, vinegar packets, all the teas. If you need anything—and I do mean anything—you ask.”
Peaches raised her hand like a schoolgirl, “Even that good cohosh tea you made for cramps?”
“Even that,” Cordelia nodded, “But don’t go makin’ tea babies if you don’t need it. That shit’s strong.”
Laughter bubbled lightly in the room. Violet smiled faintly, her hand resting over her belly as if remembering the last batch Pearl made for her.
Isadora stepped forward and clapped once, “I’ll be ready in ten. First girl, come with a clean wrap, no makeup, and don’t lie. I always know when you lyin’.”
The girls chuckled again and began rising, some stretching, some shuffling toward the back rooms. Cordelia started calling names. Stack lingered near the doorway, watching them go, one by one. He didn’t smile, but there was a rare softness in his face. The kind only a man who built something worth protecting could wear.
“House in order,” Pearl whispered beside him.
Stack lit the matchstick this time and let it burn low, “As it should be.”
The sun slanted low through the lace curtains of the back pantry room, where the girls went when they needed things. The air smelled like dried herbs and old lemon oil, faint hints of vinegar and sassafras clinging to the walls. A small woodstove simmered something bitter in a blackened kettle. Clarisse leaned against the shelf in her corset and silk robe, snapping gum between her teeth as she held up a sachet of red clover and yarrow, squinting at the label. Liza June, crouched low near a basket of folded cloth rags and oils, glanced up.
“You takin’ all the good stuff again, Clarisse?”
Clarisse popped her gum, “Girl, I need the good stuff. Had that railroad man back last night! He talk slow but fuck fast. I’m tryin’ to get paid twice without havin’ to start over.” She turned toward Aunt Pearl, who was grinding something in a stone mortar with her thick, weathered hands, “Pearl, you got that thing? That powder that make a man stay hard longer?”
Aunt Pearl didn’t even look up.
“You mean the goat root blend? With a dash of sassafras and shame? Yeah, it’s over there in the green tin. But don’t give him too much. Man’ll get cockstruck and think he love you.”
Clarisse laughed loud and low, tossing her curls over her shoulder, “Ain’t that what I want?”
Just then, the back door creaked open, and Violet stepped in quietly, soft cotton dress brushing her knees, curls pinned half up, skin dewy from her bath. She held a little cloth pouch against her chest.
Liza June smiled, “Hey, sugar. You late.”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Aunt Pearl looked up from her mortar and gave Violet a knowing once-over, “Ain’t no interruptin’. Come on in, baby.”
Violet stepped past Clarisse and Liza June, holding the pouch a little tighter. Her eyes were shy, but steady, “I came for more tea,” she said softly, “and…the other thing you gave me last time.”
Pearl’s expression shifted from teasing elder to serious caretaker. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the cabinet behind her.
“Everything alright?”
Violet hesitated. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“Yes, ma’am. Just…I been with Smoke regular. And…sometimes he finishes inside.”
Clarisse made a little noise behind her, somewhere between scandal and approval.
Aunt Pearl cut her a look, “Hush, baby.” Then she turned back to Violet, “You okay with that?”
Violet nodded. Her voice was quiet but certain, “Yes. I want him to. I know my moon cycle. It’s close. I’ve been trackin’ it. But I…I just wanna be safe.”
Aunt Pearl stared at her for a long moment, then reached into the cabinet. She pulled out a glass jar wrapped in linen, and a folded wax paper packet, “This here’s the sweet tea blend—red raspberry leaf, wild carrot seed, and just a pinch of slippery elm. You brew it strong after y’all lay together. First cup before bed. Second in the mornin’. Finish it by moonrise.” She pressed the items into Violet’s hands, “And this little packet here? You steep it in vinegar if you feel even a twinge. Don’t matter if it’s nerves or instinct. Listen to your belly.”
Violet nodded, eyes brimming with quiet gratitude, “Thank you, Pearl. I…I don’t want no babies yet. I ain’t ready.”
Aunt Pearl touched her chin gently, her thumb warm and calloused, “You got time, Lula-Bee. Let love be sweet before it turn heavy.”
Clarisse groaned dramatically from behind, “Pearl always talk like a rootwork poet. Why you never talk to me that soft?”
Pearl chuckled, walking back to the mortar, “’Cause you ain’t soft, baby. You hardheaded as they come.”
The girls all laughed, and Violet hugged her pouch close as she turned to leave, her steps light, but her heart heavier than she let on. She’d let Smoke finish inside again last night. The way he held her after, whisperin’ all low and sweet, had made her want things she couldn’t name. But for now, she just needed Pearl’s tea and time on her side.
That late afternoon, Stack’s office sat above The Blackline like a watchtower, half-shadowed by thick velvet curtains and half-bathed in the gold-dust sunlight coming through the high windows. The room smelled of tobacco, pine-tar polish, and the faint ghost of whiskey from last night’s glasses.
Smoke had claimed Stack’s chair—not slouched, but settled deep, one long leg outstretched, the other bent. A carved wooden pipe sat between his fingers, slow curls of fragrant smoke rising in lazy spirals. His other hand held an old, worn copy of Zora Neale Hurston’s Mules and Men, pages feathered from weather and use. Every few minutes he paused to tap the corner of the book as if savoring the words before going on.
On the desk beside him, a chipped porcelain cup steamed gently. Aunt Pearl’s handwriting was looped on the tag: For your nerves, baby. Sip slow. He’d already drained half of it, though most folks would’ve sworn nothing in the world could settle Smoke’s nerves—not war, not women, not death.
Behind him, Stack stood like a carved statue, propped one shoulder against the window frame. He had on that dark, sleeveless undershirt that clung to every ridge of muscle across his chest, leather suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hand resting heavy on the big brass buckle of his belt. He stared down at the street as if he were deciding the fate of everything in it.
Below, the late-afternoon hustle carried on—clatter of wagons, stray laughter, the far-off thump of a drummer practicing. But Stack wasn’t watching the street.
He was watching her.
Sister Marigold Baptiste stood in a small circle of church folk just outside the corner store—her Sunday whites crisp, her figure neat and contained, her Bible tucked to her side like a promise she meant to keep. She had that soft, polite smile plastered on for the older ladies who hung on every word she said.
But every now and then…
Something in her eyes flickered. Something tight.
Stack’s mouth curved.
He shifted forward, planting one hand on the window frame. The motion made his bicep flex, made the light catch on the gold in his lower teeth, made the leather of his belt creak beneath his palm.
Marigold’s head turned.
She hadn’t meant to look up.
But she did.
Her eyes found him instantly—dark, wide, and full of that particular kind of righteous disapproval she saved only for him.
Stack straightened to his full height, slow, deliberate, predatory. He lifted his chin, let his thumb drag lightly over his belt buckle, and then—never breaking eye contact—brought the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip.
A single, deep, slow lick.
Marigold froze.
Her face tightened.
The corners of her mouth dropped into a sharp, brittle frown.
Stack’s lips moved without a sound.
I’ma make you mine.
Her breath hitched from all the way down on the sidewalk. She clutched her Bible tighter, spine stiff, scandal scorching her cheeks. Then she spun away from him so fast her skirt flared, stomping off like if she didn’t, the devil himself might take it as invitation.
Stack watched her go, smiling to himself like a man already choosing where he planned to touch first. Only then did he push off the window and turn back into the room. Smoke glanced up from his book, pipe resting on his lower lip.
“…You scare that churchwoman off again?” Smoke grumbled, not looking fully amused but not surprised either.
Stack dropped into the chair behind his own desk, leaning back like a king taking his throne, “Nah,” he said, spreading his legs casually, “Just remindin’ her what she already thinkin’ ‘bout.”
Smoke snorted, flipping the page, “She gon’ swing that Bible at your head one day.”
“She swing it,” Stack said, “I’m catchin’ that shit. Make her recite a passage while I tongue-fuck her.” He folded his arms behind his head, eyes hooded, grin dangerous. Then his expression shifted, tightening, becoming all business, “Aye,” he said, nodding toward Smoke, “We good to talk.”
Smoke closed the Hurston book slowly, marking the page with a loose matchstick. He tapped his pipe out on Stack’s ashtray and leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“Alright. Hit me.”
Stack opened the top drawer and pulled out a folded set of papers—notes, maps, a letter written in tight Chicago scrawl and smudged with someone else’s blood. He spread them out on the desk.
“We set for Chicago,” he began, “Got word from Vincenzo’s crew—they man up in Bronzeville finally came through. The one who specialize in hardware.”
Smoke’s gaze sharpened. Hardware meant one thing: firearms.
Stack tapped the corner of the letter. “Trench brooms, Eli. Modified. Clean. Easy reload. He set ‘em aside for us.”
Smoke’s jaw twitched—not excitement, not fear. Calculation, “So we buyers now?” he asked quietly.
Stack shook his head, “Nah.” His voice dropped lower, smoother, colder, “We ain’t goin’ as buyers.” He leaned forward, gold tooth catching the low light, “We goin’ as men who already know how to use ’em.”
Smoke’s mouth curled into something wicked. Something tired. Something ready, “Then we best head North.”
Stack’s grin widened, “Windy City waits.”
Smoke stood, book in hand, pipe tucked into his waistband. He reached for Aunt Pearl’s teacup, took a final sip for luck and grounding, and set it down with a quiet clink. Stack rose too, adjusting his belt, rolling his shoulders. Below them, through the window, the street rolled on, unaware. Sister Marigold marched home in a storm cloud of indignation.
Smoke exhaled one long breath of pipe smoke.
Stack moved through The Blackline with the authority of a man who built it brick by brick. He walked the back alley first, boots crunching against loose gravel, eyes sweeping the shadows.
Trash bins.
Delivery crates.
The old iron ladder that led to the roof.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing watching.
He lit a cigarette, exhaled slow through his nose, then tapped his knuckles softly against the doorframe of the side room, just enough to be heard. Inside, Alma Rose sat perched on a low stool near the window, the late-afternoon light warming her skin. Her robe was wrapped tight, her feet bare, one hand resting in her lap. She’d just come from Miss Isadora’s room, cheeks a little flushed, but calm. She looked up as Stack leaned against the doorframe. He didn’t come in.
“You feelin’ alright?” he asked, voice low.
She nodded once, eyes steady but quiet, “Yes, sir. Miss Isadora was real gentle.”
“She usually is,” Stack said, flicking ash off the end of his smoke, “She say everything lookin’ good?”
Alma Rose nodded again, a bit more firmly this time, “Said my cycle might be late ‘cause of nerves. Said the tea you gave her to give me should help.”
Stack’s jaw twitched slightly, but he just nodded, “That tea works. Let her know if anything feels off after.”
Alma Rose looked down at her hands, then back up, “Thank you, Mr. Stack… for askin’. And for seein’ me before I said anything.”
His gaze softened, but he didn’t let it show much more than a small tilt of his head, “Ain’t no girl in this house invisible, Alma Rose. You here, you matter.”
She smiled faintly, and Stack tapped the doorframe once before stepping back.
“Get you some rest. Pearl made up a tonic for sleep if you need it.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied softly.
As he walked off, the cigarette burning low between his fingers, Alma Rose sat a little straighter. Still quiet, but not so small.
Smoke slipped downstairs into the supply room, where Aunt Pearl kept all manner of things stacked neat: oils, salves, bandages, tea blends, knives wrapped in cloth, condoms in glass jars, even the old shotgun under the table.
Smoke knelt, checked the gun first—clean. Loaded.
He didn’t like leaving Little Rock without ensuring Pearl and the girls had protection. Not with Felix Vaughn creeping around, and certainly not with Chicago business stirring. Smoke locked the shotgun back beneath the oilcloth and took inventory of the shelves. His hand rested briefly on a jar of Aunt Pearl’s soothing balm. He tapped the lid.
“For Pearl,” he spoke low, “For Violet. For all them girls.”
Smoke rose and locked the room behind him.
Back in his office, Stack rolled his sleeves and dragged a metal lockbox onto the desk. Inside were neatly folded bills, IOUs, and a few questionable promissory notes from folks who owed The Blackline money for protection, liquor, or their own sins.
He sorted the stacks with a quick, competent hand.
“Chicago ain’t cheap,” he muttered.
He set aside a bundle of clean bills, the kind you used when dealing with men who wore suits and had bodyguards. Then he pulled out a shorter stack—dirty bills, marked, the kind washed through dice tables and backroom fights.
Those were Chicago bills too. Just a different kind of Chicago. A knock hit the doorframe. Smoke entered, leaning a shoulder against the wall.
“That enough?” Smoke asked.
“For gettin’ in the room,” Stack answered, “We ain’t payin’ full price for nothin’ ‘til we see what’s bein’ played.”
Smoke grunted in agreement.
Smoke reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn address book—ink smudged, paper soft at the edges. He flipped through until he found the Chicago pages.
Names like:
Gallo (safe house)
Roach (runner—unreliable)
Leon “The Wrench”—mechanic, no questions asked
Sammy the Talker—only when desperate
He crossed out two. Both dead. Chicago did that.
Then he circled one name.
“Marino’s boy. Hardware specialist.”
Vincenzo’s friend. Smoke tapped the name twice.
Stack noticed.
“We gon’ need him,” Stack said.
“For now,” Smoke replied.
Stack fetched a leather duffle from his closet, laying it open on the bed he barely slept in. He wasn’t packing clothes yet—just essentials.
Brass knuckles.
A flat knife that fit perfectly in his boot.
A folded map of Chicago marked in pencil with safe corners and danger streets.
A Saint Cecilia medal—something an Italian girl once gave him after a good night and a bad morning.
And two cigarettes rolled with something stronger than tobacco.
“For emergencies,” Stack muttered.
He closed the travel bag halfway, waiting for the final yes.
Smoke went to the safehouse storage room, the evening wind pushed across his face, cool and damp. He moved with practiced quiet, opening crates and drawers, counting stock by memory more than sight.
Rifles: Three—two bolt-action, one rusted and useless.
Pistols: Five total, including his. One gone missing.
Rounds: Enough for a fight. Not enough for a war.
Two molasses tins stuffed with fake IDs, calling cards, and coded route notes.
Two sawed-off shotguns tucked in satin-lined cases. Smoke’s favorite touch.
He checked each piece, hands slow, methodical. Smoke was the quieter twin, but in moments like this he was the more dangerous one.
He whispered to the revolver like an old friend:
“Behave for me in Chicago.”
Smoke returned to the office last. Stack was sitting behind the desk now, elbows planted, eyes staring at the letter from Chicago like it was both a promise and a warning. Smoke closed the door behind him.
“Checked it all. Think it’s time we head on over to Swansong?” Smoke asked.
Stack didn’t look up, “Almost.”
“Then what we do now?”
Stack finally lifted his chin, his eyes sharp, dark, and unmistakably hungry for whatever storm lay ahead.
“We watch. We listen. We prepare.”
Smoke nodded, “And when we go?”
Stack’s smile was small, cold, and certain.
“When we go…?” He leaned back, fingers tapping his belt buckle, “We go wit’ the intent on coming back with more than a whisper.”
Smoke lit his pipe again, flame sparking briefly in the dim office. Below them, The Blackline hummed with life. Outside, Little Rock carried on like nothing was coming.Inside, two brothers were getting ready.
And The Blackline boys were already bracing for it.
Little Rock didn’t shine the way cities up North did. It simmered.
Especially in the “fine” district, where lanterns cast warm halos over white-columned churches and gentlemen’s clubs that didn’t speak their sins aloud.
The Swansong sat tucked behind it all.
No sign. No shingle. Just a pair of wrought iron gates that opened only if you knew where to knock and how to smile. Tonight, the gates opened without hesitation.
Smoke stepped through first, dressed in shadow—a black wool coat draped open over his dark slacks and collarless shirt, the buttons half done. Stack walked beside him, sharp in a bone-colored suit that caught the light like bone china, a pearl stickpin in his lapel. Together, they looked like the last two men you wanted to owe.
Violet followed.
She was a vision.
A black satin slip dress clung to her body like dusk clinging to warm skin, held by thin velvet straps. A dark orchid pinned behind her ear matched her lipstick — plum, rich, meant to stain. She wore sheer gloves and kitten heels, and a vintage beaded shawl draped over her shoulders like spilled ink.
She didn’t walk. She glided.
As they entered, the air shifted.
Inside, the Swansong smelled of sandalwood, expensive perfume, pipe smoke, and something older, something like wilted roses left in holy water.
The main parlor spread before them in velvet-draped grandeur. Blood-red curtains lined the walls. Chandeliers dripped crystal tears onto the parquet floor, where a woman with a bottle-blonde flapper bob sang blues low over a brushed piano. People lounged on tufted settees in silk and sequins—women with women, men with men, others in between—all draped across each other like sin had a sound, and this was the echo.
No one glanced up.
They were used to danger here.
A tall girl in a black satin cheongsam approached them with grace and detachment.
“Miss Mercy’s expecting y’all,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to Violet, then back to Smoke, “Follow me.”
They were led through the main room, past velvet ropes and closed doors. The scent of rose oil grew heavier. Behind one half-open door, laughter spilled out breathless and unhinged. Then they turned a corner, and the hallway grew quiet. At the end was a chamber lit only by two standing candelabras and the pale hush of moonlight bleeding through lace curtains. A record hummed in the corner saxophone, slow and aching.
And there sat Mercy Dubois.
Her robe was sapphire velvet, her hair coiled high, and her gaze sharp enough to peel back your soul. She sat with her legs crossed at the knee, a long cigarette balanced between two fingers, her voice already sliding into the air like smoke before anyone spoke.
“Now look what the moon dragged in,” she purred.
Stack smiled, “Evenin’, Mercy.”
Smoke didn’t speak. He just stepped closer, gaze unwavering.
Mercy’s eyes drifted to Violet. She smiled slowly.
“Didn’t expect her. Pretty thing.”
“She stays,” Smoke said.
Mercy chuckled, waving a hand, “I ain’t runnin’ no parlor tricks. If she brave enough to be here, let her hear.” She gestured toward the velvet sofa. “Sit. Sip. Then speak.”
They sat.
It was Stack who broke the silence first, “You told me once Séraphine ain’t like us. Said she don’t bleed easy.”
Mercy’s smile faded, “I said that.”
“You said more before,” Smoke added, “Back when Ree ran with you. We want to talk to her.”
Mercy’s lips went tight, “You don’t want that.”
“She’s alive, ain’t she?” Stack asked, “Let us hear it from her mouth.”
Mercy exhaled smoke through her nose, “Ree don’t talk much. And when she do, it ain’t above a whisper. But fine.”
She rose, regal and slow, and crossed to a side door. She opened it just enough to murmur something. After a beat, a girl emerged—thin, dark-skinned, maybe late thirties now, but hollowed out from the inside.
Ree.
She wouldn’t meet their eyes.Her hands trembled as she poured tea from a tray into tiny bone-white cups. She moved like someone underwater—slow, floating, half-there.
“She saw Séraphine once,” Mercy said softly, “and was never the same.”
Ree set a cup in front of Violet.
She whispered almost imperceptibly, “She walks through mirrors.”
Everyone froze.
“She don’t blink. Don’t blink—don’t blink—don’t blink—”
Mercy crossed quickly and placed her hands on Ree’s shoulders, steadying her.
“She’s alright,” Mercy said, quietly, “She just remembers.”
Violet felt her chest tighten.
Stack leaned forward, “Mercy, we need to know what she is.”
Mercy turned toward them, voice colder now, “You don’t.”
“Try us,” Smoke said.
She studied him long and hard. Then, with a breath like resignation, she sat back down. Her tone changed.
“She came from the swamps down in Cuba. Ciénaga de Zapata. Long time ago. Wasn’t born evil. Became it. Crossed somethin’ she shouldn’t have. Gave up her softness in exchange for power.” Mercy’s eyes dropped to her tea. “And she got it.”
“Why is she workin’ with Felix?” Violet asked, finally.
Mercy looked at her then. Really looked. Her head tilted slightly.
“She ain’t workin’ with Felix. She’s usin’ him. She picks the rotten ones. Ones already undone inside.”
Stack frowned, “What for?”
Mercy didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, “She’s lookin’ for somethin’. Or someone. She talks about a girl carryin’ crooked light. One who can walk between.”
Her gaze lingered on Violet just a second too long.
Violet sat very still.
Smoke’s hand twitched at his side, “You knew all this and didn’t tell us,” he said lowly.
Mercy’s eyes snapped to his, “I ain’t told you because I ain’t tryin’ to die.”
Stack leaned back, “We ain’t scared of her.”
“You should be,” Mercy said, voice flat, “You boys walk like you got iron skin and fast hands. But she don’t come at you loud. She comes slow. She waits. She drains. She rots.”
Silence.
Then Mercy looked back at Violet.
“But maybe you…”
She stood again. Walked slowly over to her. Took Violet’s chin in her hand and tilted her face to the light.
“You feel her, don’t you?” Mercy whispered, “She’s dreamin’ inside you already.”
Violet nodded, just once.
Mercy let go.
“Then maybe you the key. Or the crack.”
She turned away.
“I’ll help you,” she said at last, “But understand this: if you wanna get to her, you gotta cut the man she’s hidin’ behind. Felix. Word is, he’s gathering strength. Feels untouchable now.”
Smoke’s eyes sharpened.
“That’s why Chicago matters,” Mercy said, voice low, “You boys still got friends up there?”
Stack smirked, “Got ghosts. Got enemies. But yeah. We got friends too.”
Mercy tapped her ash into a dish carved like a skull.
“Then go wake ‘em. Burn that man’s kingdom down before she decides to build her throne on it.”
The others had already stepped outside.
Stack lingered for a beat in the doorway, eyes scanning the hallway like he expected Séraphine to ooze out of the shadows. Smoke stayed one pace behind him, watching Mercy with that low-burning stare of his. The kind that said he didn’t need to raise his voice to threaten. He just needed to breathe.
But it was Mercy who spoke.
“Let the girl stay a minute.”
Smoke’s brow twitched, “For what?”
Mercy lifted a single eyebrow, “To talk.”
Violet gave him a gentle look, “I’ll be alright.”
Stack shrugged, “Five minutes.”
Smoke didn’t say anything. Just nodded once. But before the door closed, he looked back one more time. And then it was just the two of them. Mercy and Violet. Woman to woman.
The door clicked shut behind them like a secret.
Mercy poured herself another splash of something dark from a decanter that smelled like cherries and old wood. She didn’t offer Violet any.
“You know what you really steppin’ into?” she asked without looking up, “This thing with Séraphine…this ain’t a dance you just stop. It gets in you. On you. Lingers in your sleep.”
Violet held her ground, “I ain’t runnin’.”
Mercy turned, studied her, “You still can. You got legs. Skin still smooth. Heart still warm. You can pack a bag and never look back.”
Violet’s voice was steady, “I want to help.”
Mercy snorted softly, “Help who? Stack? The girls at that club?”
“I want to protect Smoke,” Violet said.
That made Mercy pause. Then—she laughed. A slow, throaty, disbelieving thing.
“Protect Smoke?” she echoed, “That man with the jaw like iron and the patience of a rattler in July?”
Violet smiled faintly, “That one.”
Mercy sat, swirling her glass, watching her, “You don’t think he’s the one who’s supposed to protect you?”
“I know he would,” Violet said, “But that’s the thing about men like him. They think all they good for is guardin’ the door. Raisin’ hell. Bleedin’ for people they ain’t sure they even deserve.” She stepped closer to the window, looking out at the moonlit courtyard beyond, “But I seen him. Really seen him. And beneath all that storm, all that fire and grit and silence there’s stillness. Real stillness. A kind that don’t know how to ask for peace. So it just looks for someone who feels like it.” She turned to Mercy, her voice soft but full, “I’m his stillness.”
Mercy’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. She said nothing.
“I love him,” Violet said, “Not the way folks throw that word around when the drink’s sweet and the bed’s warm. I love him. And I don’t wanna lose him. Not to the dark. Not to her.”
A long pause.
Violet nodded once, like she’d finished what she came to say. She started to turn but Mercy’s voice stopped her.
“Wait.”
Violet looked back.
Mercy tilted her head, studying her again. This time, something deeper shifted in her eyes. Not suspicion, not even curiosity.
Recognition.
“You ever taste indigo in your dreams?”
Violet blinked, “What?”
Mercy rose from her chair, slow and deliberate, robe whispering across the floor, “That’s how I knew,” she said, voice low, “The ones like you. Born with salt in their blood. They dream in blue. Not sky blue. Not sea blue. That old blue. Muddy. Heavy. The kind that stains deeper than bruises. The kind that don’t wash out easy.”
Violet blinked, “How you know I’m Gullah?”
Mercy smiled. A slow thing.
“Your voice got a rhythm to it. Like water rockin’ in a bowl. You dream of salt and honey. And the way your hands move when you talk. You been carryin’ that color your whole life. That’s Gullah blood, baby. That’s the kind spirits don’t whisper to. They sing.”
Violet swallowed, “You think that’s why she’s after me?”
Mercy exhaled, “I think your blood ain’t blind. And that’s a dangerous thing.” She leaned closer, “Next time you close your eyes… listen for the humming.”
Violet nodded, holding the bundle tightly.
Then she left.
And behind her, Mercy stayed in the candlelight, staring at the mirror across the room. Watching for ripples.
Just in case.
They didn’t say much on the drive back.
Stack didn’t ask where they were headed when Smoke stayed behind the wheel instead of coming inside. He just nodded once, real slow, like a man who understood silence better than words. Smoke waited until the door shut behind his brother before shifting the truck back into gear.
Violet started to climb out too, but Smoke’s voice came low from the driver’s side.
“Get back in, baby. I ain’t done with you yet.”
She blinked, one foot on the ground, “What you mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at her, jaw tight, fingers still on the wheel like letting go of it might let go of something else. Violet hesitated, then eased herself back into the seat. The door shut with a gentle click, and the truck rolled forward again—slow, steady, deeper into the dark.
The city melted behind them, lights growing scarce until even the stars seemed to hang closer, like they were listening.
Violet glanced sideways, her voice quieter now, “Where we goin’, Elijah?”
His grip on the wheel twitched when she said his name like that—full and unguarded.
“You’ll see,” he said.
They reached the edge of Tchula Lake just past midnight.
The air shifted as they pulled in. Not colder, not warmer, but…older. Like something in the trees had been waiting a long time to be noticed. The water was still as glass, catching the moonlight and holding it like a secret. Spanish moss dripped from the low cypress branches, trailing fingers just above the surface.
The truck’s tires crunched over soft gravel and stopped just before the grass gave way to earth and shore.
Smoke killed the engine.
For a moment, there was only the sound of the lake breathing.
Then he moved—slow and sure, like the quiet around them had to be respected. He stepped out, walked around, and opened her door without a word.
She looked up at him, curious, cautious.
He reached out a hand.
She took it.
The truck bed had already been set up. A thick old quilt spread out in the back, a small oil lantern flickering gold beside a closed picnic basket, and a phonograph with a handful of worn records tucked neatly beside it.
Violet’s breath caught.
“You did all this…?”
Smoke didn’t look at her right away. Just lit a cigarette with his head slightly bowed, one hand cupped against the breeze.
“Ain’t nothin’,” he said.
She smiled—wide and warm and dimpled—and climbed up onto the quilt without hesitation. He followed, sitting close beside her, legs long and folded, boots resting on the edge.
She peeked into the basket and found two fried catfish sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a jar of sweet tea with lemon slices, and a tin of Aunt Pearl’s fig preserves with a tiny wooden spoon.
“Damn,” she whispered, “You planned this.”
Smoke gave a small shrug, “Wanted to show you somethin’ real. Out here, it’s quiet. No ears. No whispers. Just you. Me. Stars.”
He reached for the phonograph, wound it slow, and dropped the needle.
A low blues hum rose up, crackling like fire, slow as syrup. A woman’s voice, aching and raw, sang about a love that struck like lightning and stayed like rain.
Violet curled into his side, resting her head against his shoulder.
“Didn’t know you were such a romantic,” she teased softly.
Smoke let out a breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, “I ain’t.”
She tilted her chin up, “Then why bring me here?”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then—
“’Cause I ain’t never had stillness ‘til you.”
Her throat tightened.
Smoke flicked the cigarette out into the grass, then turned his full body toward her. His face in the lantern light was all shadows and sincerity, nothing slick or guarded left.
“I’m used to noise. Gunfire, orders, street talk, betrayal. City ain’t quiet. Even when it sleeps. And I been carryin’ that noise in me since I was a boy.” He reached out, fingers brushing her jaw, her temple, “But you? You don’t make me silent, Violet. You make me still.”
The record kept spinning behind them, slow and smoky.
“I ain’t never took a woman on no date before. Never planned nothin’. Never wanted to.” His voice dropped low, rough, “But I love you.”
The words didn’t explode. They sank.
Soft. Honest. Immovable.
Violet’s lips parted, breath caught like she wasn’t sure she heard it right.
He watched her, eyes dark but open.
“I love you,” he said again, “Ain’t just about what we do in bed, or how you look in silk. I love the way you move through rooms like you already belonged in ‘em. The way you hum to yourself when you think no one’s listenin’. The way you see me, even when I ain’t showin’ nothin’.”
He paused.
Then, quieter, “And that ribbon you wear…”
Violet blinked. Stunned. But Smoke went on.
“That ain’t just cloth to me. It’s the part of you you don’t give away easy. The part that stays tied ‘til you say otherwise.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, “When you let me untie it…” He exhaled, voice low and gentle now, “…that wasn’t about sex. That was trust. That was you givin’ me permission to see all of you. Hold all of you. And I don’t take that light.”
Violet’s eyes burned hot with tears. The ribbon had always been her quiet armor. A small, delicate thing no one had ever touched without her guiding their hands.
She whispered, “You were the first one who didn’t pull at it. Just…waited.”
Smoke nodded, “I’d wait forever if you asked me to.”
Her eyes shimmered.
She leaned forward and kissed him, slow and deep, her fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring him. The kiss broke, but their foreheads stayed pressed together.
“I love you too,” she whispered, “Didn’t mean to. But I do.”
Smoke didn’t smile. But he looked like a man finally breathing easy.
They sat like that for a while—tangled, quiet, held.
The moon hung over Tchula Lake like a second soul. Far across the water, something shimmered. A light too soft to be fire, too low to be a star. Violet felt it but didn’t fear it. She leaned back against Smoke’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her. And the stillness wrapped around them both.
Smoke leaned forward and cracked open the picnic basket again, pulling out the wrapped catfish sandwiches. He handed one to Violet, then unfolded his own with slow fingers, like he wasn’t in any rush to let the moment move too fast. Violet unwrapped hers in her lap, stealing a glance at him through lowered lashes. He was watching her, not with hunger exactly, but like she was a vision he didn’t quite trust to be real. That soft weight of his gaze made her squirm, made her smile without meaning to.
“What?” she asked, biting into the edge of her sandwich.
Smoke shook his head faintly, lips tugged in a slow smile that barely broke his stillness.
“Just…tryna understand how you sittin’ here right now. Like you fell out the sky just for me.”
Violet chewed slower, eyes wide at the honesty in his voice. She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t. Just looked down and took another bite, mouth curling with laughter she tried to hide. Bashful. A little stunned.
“Shut up,” she mumbled, blushing.
“Can’t,” he replied, picking up his sandwich, “You too pretty when you get shy.”
They ate side by side on the quilt, shoulders touching, the lantern throwing soft flickers across their faces. Crickets played the background score, and somewhere in the woods, a bird called once low and lonely. Violet reached for the mason jar of sweet tea, twisting the lid off and taking a long sip. She paused, blinked, then sipped again slower, tongue testing the taste.
Her head turned, brows lifting.
“Smoke.”
“Mm?”
“This tea got somethin’ in it.”
Smoke raised an eyebrow, “That so?”
She narrowed her eyes, lifting the jar again and sniffing, “Is that bourbon?”
“Little touch. Aunt Pearl snuck it in. Said it’d keep you warm if the night turned.”
Violet gave him a half-hearted glare, but the corner of her mouth curled, “You tryin’ to get me drunk out here?”
“Just a lil loose,” he said, taking a sip of his own, “But I got you either way.”
She shook her head and leaned into him with a soft laugh, her sandwich half-finished in her lap, her limbs growing languid from the warmth of his body, the lake air, the spiked tea. The cypress trees swayed in a breeze that didn’t touch them, and the light on the lake danced again. That same strange shimmer just at the edge of sight. Violet didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes for a second, breathing him in, and laid her head on his shoulder.
Smoke reached down, his hand finding her thigh beneath the hem of her dress. His fingers brushed slow over the soft skin just above her knee back and forth, a rhythm that didn’t ask for anything. Just a grounding touch, like he was reminding himself she was there. Real. His.
She exhaled, warm and quiet.
“You ever bring anybody else out here?” she asked, voice feather-soft.
“No.”
She looked up at him.
“Never?”
He turned to face her fully now, his hand still gently stroking her thigh, “Violet. I ain’t never felt the need to show anybody where I go to breathe.”
That silence wrapped around them again. Not the awkward kind, but something sacred, heavy with all the things they didn’t need to say. The record had finished spinning a while ago, but the echo of it still clung to the air. Smoke reached behind her and nudged the needle again. The same slow blues rolled out. A voice low and full of ache, curling like smoke through the cypress.
Then Violet turned to him. Her lips parted.
And he leaned in.
The kiss was full-tongued and slow. No rush. Just mouths learning one another again, over and over, like this was the first and the last time. His hand cradled the back of her head. Hers slid over his chest and curled into his shirt. Their breath synced in quiet gasps between kisses.
He pulled back once, just barely.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
She blinked, dazed.
He ran his nose along hers, voice rasped and full of wanting, “Tell me again you love me.”
Violet smiled against his mouth, “I love you.”
And then they kissed like the lake would hold their secrets forever.
They sipped more of the spiked sweet tea, slow and easy, letting the warmth settle in their bellies and bones. Violet’s cheeks flushed soft, and she smiled more freely now, humming along to the new record Smoke had cued up a blues tune with a syrupy backbeat and a woman’s voice so full of ache it dragged the stars closer just to listen. Smoke leaned back on his elbows, one boot crossed over the other, watching her sway.
Violet had stood to stretch but never sat back down. Instead, she twirled. Just once, all slow and smooth, arms out, bare feet brushing over the quilt’s edges, satin catching the lantern light like liquid onyx. That black slip dress clung to her body like dusk clinging to warm skin, thin velvet straps sliding delicately over her shoulders, the neckline soft but suggestive, hinting at the swell of her breasts and the subtle movement of her hips as she swayed. The hem kissed her thighs every time she turned.
Smoke’s chest rose and fell a little deeper.
The stars blinked behind her like they approved. The moon, hung high and bright above Tchula Lake, cast her silhouette in silver and shadow, making her look otherworldly. Not fae. Not magic. Just…rare.
Like a slow song in a silent room.
His voice was gravel dipped in honey, “You tryna ruin me?”
Violet turned, a lazy smile curling at her mouth, and walked back to him with her tea jar dangling from her fingers, “Just feelin’ good,” she said, voice light and flirty, lips shiny with gloss and tea and maybe a little sin.
She straddled him without warning—slow, confident—her knees pressing into the quilt on either side of his hips. The slip rode up her thighs, soft and teasing, until the bare heat of her pressed fully into the cradle of his lap. Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe at first. Just looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he should grab her or pray over her. Violet reached up and touched his face, her fingertips grazing the stubble on his jaw.
They leaned in, foreheads resting together, breath mingling, his warm and smoky, hers sweet and heady from the tea. He reached up, his hand brushing her cheek, then slid behind her ear, gently stroking the deep orchid tucked there, the same color as her lipstick. That flower had been pinned in her hair when she stepped into his truck hours ago. It was still there. Still perfect. Still her.His thumb dragged slow over the velvet petal, then dipped to trace her bottom lip.
Their mouths met.
Slow. Full. Sultry.
Their lips molded together like they’d been shaped for this exact kiss. No hesitation, no rush, just a long, languid pull. Smoke kissed like he touched his guns. With precision, control, and deep knowledge of danger. He took his time. Pressed. Tasted.
Violet whimpered softly into his mouth when he sucked her bottom lip, held it there between his teeth, then let it go with a hot breath that made her thighs tighten around his hips. Her hands tangled in the short curls at the nape of his neck, nails grazing skin. His hands rested on her waist, fingers pressing into silk and flesh, holding her like she might float away if he didn’t anchor her.
The kiss deepened—wet, open, velvet-slow. Tongues tangling. Lips dragging. Breath shared. He kissed her like he needed her. Like he wanted to crawl inside her breath and live there. She kissed him like she’d been waiting for this exact night, this exact stillness, this exact man.
Smoke slid one hand up her spine, palm wide and firm, then cradled the back of her neck as he kissed her again, rougher now, like restraint was unraveling thread by thread. The air around them was warm but thick with a charged hush. The kind that came before a storm or a confession. Even the lake had gone quiet, the trees holding their breath.
Violet pulled back just enough to speak against his lips, voice barely there.
“Elijah…”
His eyes flickered open, dark and molten.
She kissed him again. Longer this time.
Deeper.
Smoke’s mouth was still on hers when his hands started moving. Slow at first. Like he was savoring her. Mapping her with his palms. He slipped one beneath the hem of her dress, dragging it up inch by inch until the silk bunched around her waist. She shifted in his lap, making a soft sound in the back of her throat when he palmed her bare ass.
No panties.
His breath hitched. Chest flared. Eyes dragged down between them like he couldn’t help himself.
“Goddamn,” he rasped.
Violet tilted her head, coy, “That a problem?” she asked, voice feather-soft and teasing, lips still swollen from his kiss. She rolled her hips slow over his, feeling how hard he already was through his slacks.
“Nah,” he muttered, grip tightening, “just makes it easier.”
She giggled. Then gasped when he slid his hand back up her spine, gripping the back of her neck. He kissed her again—harder this time—then shifted, flipping their positions like it was nothing. Now she was beneath him in the bed of the truck, quilt warm beneath her back. The night wrapped around them, sticky and electric. That record still played in the distance, warbled slightly from the gramophone but sweet. The lake shimmered silver under the moonlight.
Smoke kneeled between her thighs, pulling her up to sit just long enough to slide the dress from her body. He peeled it down, baring her inch by inch, his knuckles brushing the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the softness of her thighs. She didn’t help. Didn’t rush. Just let him take.
When he tossed the dress aside, Violet laid back in nothing but sheer elbow-length gloves, nipples peaked and dusky, legs parted like she belonged there—offered, open, glowing under the stars. That purple orchid was still tucked behind her ear, undisturbed. Her lipstick was smudged now. So was her soul.
Smoke stared like he was witnessing a miracle.
“Look at you,” he spoke, voice low in that way only a man who wanted to break something said it, “Laid out like this for me…”
Violet bit her lip and dragged a gloved hand down between her own breasts, over her belly, stopping just above her mound. Her voice was soft and sultry, “Out in the open, Smoke?” She arched a brow, “In the truck bed?”
He just laughed—quiet and hungry—and peeled off his coat. Then his shirt. Buttons undone one by one while he watched her. His chest rose and fell, golden brown skin catching the moonlight, every muscle rippling like it had been carved for this exact moment.
“You scared?” he asked, crawling over her slow.
She shook her head, lips parted, “No.”
“Then hush that teasing mouth,” he whispered, “before I fuck you so good you forget your own name.”
Her breath caught.
Smoke’s mouth dropped to her collarbone first. Then lower. He kissed between her breasts, then one side, then the other, sucking soft until she gasped. Then lower until his mouth dragged over her belly while his hand slid between her thighs, fingers brushing heat.
She was soaking.
“S’that all for me, baby?” he whispered, voice muffled against her skin.
She whined, “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
He smiled, low and dangerous, before leaning down—closer, closer—until he kissed just above her slit, barely missing the place she needed most.
Violet squirmed.
Smoke licked slow. Once. Flat. From base to tip. She arched, a moan slipping loose. He did it again. Then again. Slow, thorough, deliberate. Then he sucked—gentle but firm—right on that aching little clit. Her back came off the quilt. She was panting now, fingers tangled in his curls, thighs trying to close around his head. But Smoke gripped them open, locked in place, tongue working slow circles and deep licks like he was trying to memorize the taste of her.
“Sweetest thing I ever had,” he muttered, licking through her folds again, “Fuck.”
Violet’s thighs trembled, “Smoke…”
“Hush.”
He sucked harder. She cried out.
Smoke didn’t come up for air.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t even give her a warning.
He hooked his hands under Violet’s knees and spread her wide, pushing her thighs back until her body bowed pretty on the quilt beneath her. The lantern light caught the sheen between her legs—slick, messy, glistening— and he stared at it like it offended him.
“You been walkin’ ‘round all damn night,” Smoke growled, voice raw, “with this pussy lookin’ like that?”
Violet’s breath hitched, “S‑Smoke…”
He dragged his tongue straight through her folds—slow, deliberate, long—from the very bottom of her slit all the way to her swollen clit. And when he got there, he didn’t flick. Didn’t tease.
He wrapped his lips around it and sucked.
Hard.
Violet gasped, back arching off the truck bed. Her gloved hands flew into his curls, clutching tight, but Smoke gripped her thighs and held her open, forcing her to take everything he gave.
“Mmhm,” he hummed against her, tongue rolling heavy and wet, “This messy little thing…all this cream…” He slurped noisily, pulling her folds into his mouth, “…you been hidin’ this from me, huh? Thought I wasn’t gon’ find out you been sitting in that dress all night while this pussy beggin’ daddy to eat it?”
He opened her with his thumbs, exposing every soft, dripping inch of her, then buried his face right back in it. His tongue flattened and dragged, slow as a man savoring a juicy peach, then he focused lower, licking her open, tongue-fucking her with slow, deep strokes that made her whole body tremble. Spit and slick coated his mouth, his chin, her inner thighs. It glistened in the moonlight.
It dripped down her ass in warm threads.
Smoke moaned into her—low, hungry, masculine—like he was eating something he hadn’t tasted in years. He slid his hands under her ass and lifted her to his mouth, holding her there, forcing her to ride his tongue.
“Goddamn,” he muttered between licks, “you drippin’, baby. Drippin’ so much you makin’ a mess on my damn truck.”
Violet whimpered, thighs shaking.
But she didn’t look away.
She watched him.
Watched the way his jaw worked, the way his tongue moved heavy and purposeful, the way he slurped her into his mouth like he meant to steal her breath with every pass. He spread her wider, thumbs digging gently into the plush softness at the tops of her thighs. He looked up at her, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, mouth already shiny with her cream, and the sight alone made her hips roll toward him.
“That’s right,” Smoke spoke between sucks, breath hot against her soaked skin, “Keep lookin’ at me while I eat this sweet ass pussy…ain’t nobody ever gon’ do it like I do.”
He went back in.
Harder. Deeper. Messier.
He licked around her clit.
He sucked the soft lips into his mouth, slurping them noisily.
He circled her clit with the very tip of his tongue, barely touching—torturing her—then flattened his tongue and dragged up again.
Every movement was intention. Every sound was obscene. The sloppy, wet mixture of her cream and his spit filled the air—sticky, messy, loud.
Violet’s head fell back with a choked moan.
Smoke tightened his grip on her thighs, pushing them wider, one palm holding her open, the other sliding beneath her ass again to tilt her right into his mouth. His tongue dipped lower, licking her from the bottom up, slow and deep, then he sucked her clit back into his mouth, gentle at first…
…and then hard, with a hungry pull that made her gasp his name.
“Smoke—”
“Uh-uh,” he growled between slurps, not stopping, “Don’t run. Don’t close. Keep them thighs open for me. Let me get all this.” He sucked her clit again, deeper this time, lips sealing around it as his tongue pressed and rolled, “You been walkin’ ‘round all night like this,” he muttered, licking a fat stripe through her again, “with your pussy this warm…this wet…” He pulled back just enough for the cool air to touch her slickness, making her shiver, “…and ain’t think I was gon’ find out?”
Before she could answer, he was back on her, eating her with both hunger and patience, slow where it burned, deep where she ached, messy where she needed. He sucked her folds into his mouth one at a time, licked them open, licked them closed, slurped them wet until his mouth shined under the moon.
Her thighs trembled. Her breath hitched. But she still hadn’t cum and Smoke wasn’t letting her.
Not yet.
He lifted his head just enough for her to see his mouth glisten, chin dripping.
“I’m not lettin’ this pussy go,” he said softly, darkly, “until you beggin’ for me to make you cum.”
Then he dropped his head again and devoured her even slower.
Smoke was tearing Violet’s pussy up like it owed him money. Like he was trying to ruin her for every other man on earth, like he wanted his name dripping down her thighs for the rest of her life. His mouth was slick with it, chin glossy, jaw working deep and slow as he sucked her folds into his mouth with wet, filthy slurps. It didn’t even make no damn sense how greedy he was—tongue-fucking her like he lived there, like her pussy was the only place he ever felt peace.
She was losing her mind under him.
“Please,” Violet whimpered, voice fluttering like lace, sweet and soft but desperate, “Please, Smoke…eat it, please eat it…wanna give you what you want, daddy…”
Her legs were shaking now, trembling in his hold, but Smoke didn’t let up—not for a second. He groaned into her like he needed her soul, tongue dragging through her folds in thick, lazy strokes that left her gasping. Then he latched onto her clit again and gave it a slow, suckling pull.
“Oh my god,” she moaned, back arching, “It’s too much—”
“Nah, baby,” he growled, mouth still buried. “It ain’t enough yet. Not ‘til this pussy show out for daddy.”
His fingers dug into her thighs, spreading her even wider, and he licked her open like he was starved for it. He swirled his tongue around her clit, slow and soft, then sucked her into his mouth with messy intent, slurping her like he was sipping something sweet from a glass.
“You feel that?” he mumbled, breath hot, mouth wet against her, “This little pussy just openin’ up for me. Givin’ me all that cream. ‘Cause she know who she belong to.”
He sucked again, harder now—groaning low, vibrating against her swollen bud—and Violet sobbed out a moan that tore straight from her belly.
“I—daddy, I’m—I’m gonna—”
“Uh huh,” he hummed darkly, flicking his tongue fast now, relentless, wet and fast and mean, “Give it to me. Cum all over daddy’s fuckin’ mouth.”
That was all it took.
Her thighs locked around his head, trembling, her moan breaking apart in the night air as her climax hit—sharp, gushing, wet. Her pussy clenched, gushed, pulsed, and Smoke groaned deep into her, sucking her clit through it, tongue working like he was drawing the orgasm out of her body with his mouth alone.
She came hard, grinding into his face, losing herself against his tongue. And Smoke didn’t stop.
Didn’t ease up. Didn’t come up for air.
He licked her through it, slurped her through it, ate her like a man possessed—moaning, tongue-stroking, spit-slick, filthy, until she was trembling from head to toe. Until she collapsed back against the quilt with a broken whimper of his name. Until her pussy pulsed one last time and he finally—finally—lifted his head. His mouth was wrecked with her. Chin gleaming. Eyes dark and full of possession.
And when he looked at her? He licked his lips slow…and smirked.
Violet was still gasping when she pushed herself up—body limp, thighs soaked, lips swollen. But her eyes? They were burning now. Glowing with want. She reached for him, tugging at his pants until he leaned in to kiss her, and she moaned into his mouth like she was starving for the taste of herself on his lips. Their kiss was slow and wet, her breath still shaky, his mouth possessive. Smoke’s hands gripped her waist, sliding around to palm her ass, but then he felt her fingers at his belt—unbuckling him with soft urgency.
“Let me,” she whispered, voice breathy against his lips.
She undid his slacks, dragging them down just enough for him to spring free. Her hand wrapped around him slow—warm, gentle, firm—and she breathed out a soft moan against his mouth when she felt him.
So thick. Heavy. Long. The tip was flushed dark and already leaking.
“Goddamn,” she whispered.
Smoke grunted low in his throat, but didn’t stop kissing her. He tasted like heat, like hunger, like everything he just devoured from between her thighs. And while they kissed, Violet started to stroke him—slow, soft pumps that made his hips twitch. Her grip was perfect, her thumb teasing under the head, her wrist twisting just right.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” she whispered softly against his jaw, kissing down to his neck, “How you’d feel in my mouth…”
Smoke’s breath stuttered, “Shit…”
She pulled back from the kiss and looked up at him—eyes big, lips shiny, fingertips still teasing his leaking head.
Then she dropped her mouth to his dick.
No warning. No hesitation.
Just warm, wet lips wrapping around the head, tongue circling, sucking soft and slow while her eyes stayed locked on his.
“Fuck,” Smoke growled, hips jerking.
Violet moaned at the taste of him—salty, thick, dripping onto her tongue—and took him deeper, letting her lips glide down the shaft while she stroked what she couldn’t fit. Her other hand pressed to his thigh, steadying herself as she built a slow rhythm—lips suctioning, tongue swirling, wrist stroking in time.
She pulled off with a wet pop, just to kiss the tip, teasing him with soft sucks and filthy little moans.
“You so hard, baby,” she whispered, “So full…I can feel you jumpin’ in my mouth…”
Smoke hissed through his teeth. His hand found the back of her head, not to force—just to feel. Just to anchor himself while she kept sucking him soft, then wet, then messy. Her spit coated him now, dripping down the base, stringing between her lips and his shaft when she came up to catch her breath.
Then she went back down.
Slower this time. Deeper.
Mouth so warm it made his thighs tighten, made his abs clench. Her tongue flattened beneath his dick, then curled around it on the way back up. She moaned with him in her mouth, and the vibration had him gritting his teeth.
“Shit…Violet—”
She sucked harder in response. Took him deeper again.And when she looked up at him, lips wrapped tight, cheeks hollowed, spit glistening down her chin—Smoke damn near lost it. But he wasn’t ready to cum. Not yet. He gripped her shoulders and growled, low and ragged:
“Lay back down. Face that lake, baby…Daddy ‘bout to fuck this pussy.”
Smoke helped her turn over slow—gentle for all of five seconds, before his hands gripped her hips and pulled her toward the edge of the truck bed. Her knees sank into the thick quilt, ass up, chest low, arms folded beneath her cheek. The night air kissed her skin, her soft brown thighs still shining from everything he’d done to her. The lake glittered in front of her, still and endless, fae-touched and glowing beneath the stars.
It was beautiful.
But nothing looked more beautiful than Violet—laid out, ass arched, her pretty pussy glistening and open, waiting for daddy’s dick. Smoke stepped up behind her, eyes dropping to that view like it was his last supper. He grunted low, hand dragging up her spine before he palmed the back of her neck and pushed her just a little deeper into the quilt.
“Keep that back arched,” he said, voice thick, breath ragged, “Wanna see that ass bounce when I fuck you.”
Then he grabbed her hips—both hands full, rough and sure—and pulled her back just enough to tilt her right where he wanted. Titties hanging, hips tilted, legs spread. The sight of her like this made him twitch in his own hand.
“Look back at me,” he growled.
Violet turned her head, cheek pressed to her arms, lips parted, eyes glassy.
And then? Smoke slid in.
Slow. Deep. Thick.
He fed her every inch, his head thrown back, jaw clenched as her walls stretched to take him. The way her pussy pulled him in made him groan low in his throat, long and deep like it hurt.
“Goddamn, girl…this pussy so fuckin’ tight. Always so fuckin’ tight. Shit…”
Violet whimpered, eyes fluttering as he filled her.
Her body shook trying to adjust.
“D-daddy…”
“Yeah,” he grunted, gripping her hips tighter, pulling back just enough to fuck into her again—deeper, “Say that shit just like that while I’m in yo’ pretty pussy.”
He started thrusting slow at first, hips rolling deep—long, dragging strokes that made her back arch even more. Her thighs trembled. Her moans were soft and broken, breath fogging in the night as he fucked her open.
Then he sped up.
The sound changed—flesh clapping, pussy squelching, the slick mess of her wetness meeting the heavy thud of his strokes.
“Shit,” he grunted, “You hear that? That’s how you sound when you gettin’ fucked, baby.”
Her ass bounced back on him with every thrust, cheeks jiggling, thighs rippling under his grip. She looked so fuckin’ precious—laid out like that, titties swinging, head turned, face so sweet for a girl gettin’ her pussy beat from the back.
“Look at you,” he groaned, slapping into her harder, voice turning ragged, “Pussy stretchin’ around this dick like it’s home.”
Violet gasped, moaned, drooled into the blanket.
“Yes, daddy—yes, daddy—fuck me, please—”
Smoke leaned over her, chest brushing her back, lips hot at her ear, “You feel that? daddy dick hittin’ that deep spot…that one make you shake.”
He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled gently, lifting her face just enough to keep her looking at the lake—at the stars, at the moonlight dancing on the water—while he tore her ass up.
“Keep lookin’,” he ordered, “Wanna see that view while I fuck this pussy stupid.”
Then he pulled back and slammed into her.
Hard. Deep. Merciless.
The truck bed creaked. Her moans turned into cries. Her whole body rocked with each stroke, thighs shaking, pussy fluttering around his dick as the pleasure twisted into something dizzying.
“Fuck—fuck—I can’t—”
“Yes you can,” he grunted, “You takin’ all this dick like a good lil’ slut.”
His hand slid up her back, pressing between her shoulder blades, holding her in place while he pistoned his hips with steady, punishing strokes. Her pussy squelched loud with every thrust—cream dripping down his shaft, running between her thighs, soaking the damn quilt.
“Open like this for daddy every time,” he growled, “Drippin’ like this. Shakin’ like this. Givin’ this pussy up like this.”
“It is yours,” she sobbed, eyes rolled back. “Please—please—it’s yours, daddy—”
He slammed into her again—deep.
“I know.”
And with one more deep stroke—buried to the hilt, grinding, slow and brutal—he felt her start to shake. Her body tensed. Her thighs clamped. Her pussy clutched around his dick like it was trying to pull him deeper.
“Go ‘head, baby,” Smoke growled, “Let go for daddy.”
And Violet came.
Loud, hard, a mess of moans and trembles and cries.
Her pussy gushed all over him, squirting in little pulses, running down her thighs. Smoke grunted and kept fucking her through it, deeper, slower, drawing it out until her body went limp under him.
And still? He didn’t stop.
“You done?” he asked darkly, dragging his dick slow through her still-clenching walls, “Or you want daddy to really fuck this pussy now?”
Smoke wasn’t playing around.
The truck bed rocked.
Violet couldn’t move—couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think. Smoke had her folded, legs draped over his arms, her back wedged against the corner of the truck bed, her arms hanging limp over the edge, sheer gloved hands clinging to metal. Her elbows trembled, mouth open in a ruined little “o,” eyes barely focused as her body bounced with every slam of his hips.
He was gone. Deep in it.
Silent now. No more dirty talk. No more praise. Just breathing heavy through his nose, a sharp clench in his jaw, his body working like a machine—grinding, thrusting, fucking. He held the edge of the truck bed for leverage, knuckles bulging beneath his skin, arms flexed, keeping her pinned and open while he pounded into her with force that stole her sanity. Wet claps filled the air, relentless and vulgar. Her pussy was a creamy mess—slick and open, soaked from her last orgasm, now stretched to the limit, gripping his dick like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to run or pull him deeper.
But she couldn’t run.
She was locked.
Bent and folded, no escape, nothing to hold onto but the corner of the truck and the ache deep inside her belly.
“Uhh—uhhh—Smoke—” she whimpered, voice breathless and high, trying to speak, to beg, but the words came out in broken moans.
Her drippy cunt was swallowing him, clenching around him like it was molded just for his dick. And he watched it—eyes locked on the mess between them, how her creamy folds spread and suckled every time he drove back in. Her pussy gripped like it was greedy, like it needed to be punished.
She was shaking.
Spit on her lips. Sweat on her throat. The sheer gloves slipping off her arms from how tight she’d been clinging.
“Ahh—ahh—fuck, daddy—” she cried out, legs quivering, toes curling in the air, “It’s too much—too much—”
He didn’t stop. Didn’t say a word. Just shifted his grip tighter, slammed his hips harder, and fucked through her tears.
She felt everything.
Every heavy stroke. Every deep grind. The stretch of him hitting her cervix. The brutal way her pussy spasmed around him, over and over, as if trying to warn her body to stop—but she couldn’t stop.
She didn’t want to stop.
Her clit throbbed. Her belly tensed. Her thighs shook around his arms. She was so full, so far gone she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Her pussy gushed again. Hot, messy, helpless.
“Uhh—uhhhhhh—daddy please—” she sobbed, cunt fluttering hard.
Still silent. Still pounding.
He dragged his dick out slow—just to the tip—and watched her lips cling, begging him to come back.
Then he slammed back in. All of it.
Hard.
Fast.
Violet squealed. Her body jolted. Her voice cracked into a moan so filthy it sounded like sin.
And still Smoke didn’t say a word.
Just watched her.
Watched her melt. Watched her come undone. Watched how that sweet pussy creamed around his dick like it wanted to feed him. She was a fuckin’ mess. Pretty. Shattered. Folded like a doll and taking every inch. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but take it, pussy raw and overstimulated, twitching every time he bottomed out.
“Please—please—it’s so deep, it’s—” she sobbed again, one glove finally slipping off her wrist as her fingers lost strength.
Smoke didn’t slow. He held her tighter. Drilled her deeper. Used his hips like a weapon aiming for her soul. Every slap of skin against skin echoed out over the lake. Every stroke shoved the breath from her lungs. Her tears rolled silent down her cheeks, blending with sweat, spit, and the ruin of what he’d made her.
She came again.
Didn’t even realize it at first—just trembled violently, thighs locking, breath hitching. Her pussy squeezed him, gushed over his fat dick, made his abs tense and his jaw tick. He just kept fucking her like that was the only language he knew. Like her pussy was the only god he answered to.
Mouth open. Eyes rolled. Cunt fluttering.
He was close.
Too damn close.
The rhythm faltered—just for a second—before Smoke growled low in his throat and surged forward, pressing Violet flat into the corner of the truck bed. He buried his face against her neck, breath hot and ragged, lips dragging across the sweat-slick curve of her throat. His body trembled against hers, muscles tight, hips still slamming up into her like he couldn’t help it like he was chasing something deeper, hotter, something only she could give.
And he was greedy for it.
“F-fuck—” he grunted into her skin, voice cracking, “Fuuuck—”
His arm slid around her waist, strong and solid, locking her in place. Her legs were shaking, slipping, but he held her up—fucked up into her like his life depended on it.
Smack—smack—smack—
The sound of him filling her echoed out like a drumline of lust and desperation. Her pussy was soaked, swollen, still fluttering from her last orgasm, and the way she gripped him—wet and tight and warm—pushed him right to the edge. Violet was gone, slumped in his hold, moaning weakly, fucked-out and trembling.
Then he slammed deep one last time, hips jerking, cock pulsing hard inside her.
“Ahhh—shit—fuck—” Smoke hissed, face still buried in her neck.
He filled her up.
Thick.
Heavy.
So much it leaked instantly, her pussy too wet and stretched to hold it all. The warmth spilled down her ass, messy and obscene, dripping onto the quilt below. They both collapsed against each other—sweaty, panting, ruined from the inside out. Violet whimpered, chest rising in quick little shudders. She could feel him throbbing inside her, feel the aftershocks of how hard he came. Her arms draped weakly over the edge of the truck, sheer glove dangling off one hand, lips parted in silent shock.
Smoke didn’t move.
Didn’t pull out.
Didn’t let her go.
He held her there—still inside—pressed to his chest like he needed her to keep breathing.
And then he kissed her neck. Soft. Gentle. The first gentle thing in what felt like hours. His lips hovered near her ear, breath warm against her skin. And he whispered, low and hoarse, like it broke something in him to say it out loud
“I love you, Lula Bee.”.
Violet gasped.
Her whole body trembled. And Smoke just held her tighter, still buried deep, like letting go would mean losing her forever.
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