𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➤ after erik killmonger seizes the wakandan throne, a royal strategist loyal to t’challa is forced to remain in his inner circle.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ my sister wanted this, and this is my first Killmonger fic? LIKE HELLO??? definitely making more because why didn’t i think of this BEFORE? enjoy!
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ➤ 6.3k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ dirty talk, hate sex, emotional and psychological manipulation, impact play, mild breath play, throne sex, black!thick!reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), use of african language (xhosa/zulu inspired), mentions of political violence. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!
the halls of the golden city no longer sounded like home. they echoed now. not with the ancient rhythms passed down by your foremothers. not with the low, ancestral chants that once settled over the palace like fog at dawn. no — they echoed with the weight of new boots on sacred stone. boots that did not belong to a king.
they belonged to a conqueror.
erik stevens — no, he called himself n’jadaka now — had taken the throne barely two weeks ago. the blood from the ritual combat had not yet fully dried in the sacred pool, and yet the council already bowed their heads to him, lips tight with fear. there had been no second trial. no challenge. the mountain tribe stood down. t’challa’s body had vanished with the river.
you’d known t’challa since you were children. you used to spar with him beneath the shade of the elder tree, both of you too proud to admit when you’d bruised. he trusted you to hold the long-view strategy for wakanda in your hands — one of the few civilians allowed in the high council chambers. strategist. advisor. loyalist. and now… traitor, by some mouths. prisoner, by others.
but erik hadn’t thrown you to the dungeons.
instead, he kept you close.
“a mind like yours shouldn’t rot in a cell,” he’d said, the day after the coronation. he’d spoken it low in your ear, like a secret only you were worthy of. “nah… i want you right where i can see you.”
and now here you were — standing in the war room, your thick frame wrapped in deep blue and gold robes, tension stiff across your shoulders. the rich fabric clung to the slope of your hips, accentuating the body that no uniform could hide. you could feel his gaze on you before you even turned around.
“what you think, strategist?” erik’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade. deep, deliberate, heavy with that oakland-born bite. “we hit london first? or new york?”
you didn’t look at him right away. instead, you traced the holographic map glowing across the table with your fingers, watching the borders pulse with potential violence. cities were marked in red. colonizer capitals. your jaw tensed.
“wakanda does not conquer,” you said, carefully. not too soft. not too sharp. “that is not our way.”
“yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer. “and where that get y’all? watchin’ while your brothers and sisters got they necks stepped on. wakanda been hiding.”
he circled behind you like a panther. not quite touching. but close enough that your skin prickled where his heat brushed you. you refused to flinch. he wanted to see you rattle. it was the game, now. every day — the game.
“this ain’t about revenge,” he said, lowering his voice. “this about balance. and power.”
“power built on blood doesn’t last,” you replied, turning finally to face him. your eyes locked. his were molten — dark and unreadable, but sparking with something cruel and magnetic. “and what you’re building… it’s made of bones.”
he didn’t blink. just smiled slow, head tilting.
“so?” he asked, tongue dragging across the edge of his teeth. “that bother you?”
he was too close now. tall, broad, shirt open at the chest. gold fangs flashing beneath full lips. skin dusted in the faintest sheen of sweat and sun, each raised kill mark down his chest a monument to pain — and victory. you hated how magnetic he was. how his presence filled the air so fully it pushed everything else out. his scent was warm metal and cedar. his voice was gravity.
“you loyal to t’challa,” he said, voice dipped low again. “i know that. but you still here. still breathin’. still dressin’ like you got somewhere to be.”
his eyes dragged down your figure — from the tight fold of your waist wrap, across the swell of your hips, to where your thighs brushed under soft fabric. you shifted. not out of discomfort — but because you could feel how intently he watched you.
“you tryna prove somethin’?” he murmured. “or you just don’t know where else you fit now?”
you straightened, spine like steel.
“i serve wakanda,” you said. “not the man who sits on the throne.”
his laugh was soft, almost amused. but there was no kindness in it.
“sound like you tryna convince yourself.”
each day after that followed a pattern. you studied maps, advised on diplomatic approaches you didn’t believe in, and fed him half-truths through clenched teeth. still, he kept you near. always asking for your perspective, always testing your loyalty. his soldiers looked at you with suspicion, but they didn’t touch you. not without his permission.
he was possessive like that. even when he didn’t say it out loud.
and slowly — sickeningly — you started to understand him.
not agree. never that. but understand.
how anger had carved itself into him, root-deep. how power was the only language he’d ever been taught. he wielded it like a weapon, sharp and beautiful. and when he wasn’t using it to dominate a room, he used it on you — with whispers, glances, and challenges he knew you’d rise to.
he never tried to force you. he didn’t need to. erik killmonger was more dangerous than that — because he made you want to play his game.
he’d lean close during briefings, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured critiques. he’d stand at the top of the royal steps while you debated councilmen, watching your every word like a test. and when you succeeded — when your voice swayed the elders just enough — he’d nod, slow and proud, like he was claiming you for it.
“look at you,” he’d say, later, while passing you alone in the garden corridors. “still tryna save people who would’ve let you die with the old king.”
you hated how deep those words burrowed. hated how you still walked the halls after dark, pulse racing at the sound of his voice in the distance.
one night, weeks in, you found yourself summoned.
not by a guard. not by a formal scroll.
just a voice in the corridor. soft. direct. one word.
“come.”
when you stepped into the throne room, it was empty but for him. torchlight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the black stone floor. the panther statue loomed silent behind the throne.
erik sat on it like he was born there. legs spread. arms relaxed. gaze dark and direct.
you didn’t bow.
you didn’t speak.
he studied you in silence for a long moment, then motioned you forward with two fingers.
“you believe i don’t deserve this,” he said, voice level. “say it.”
your throat tightened. but you forced yourself steady.
“i believe your rule is built on a lie,” you said. “wakanda’s legacy is not yours to twist.”
he didn’t move. didn’t blink. but his voice dropped, slow and rough.
“and yet here you stand.”
your lips parted — to argue, maybe. or to defend yourself. but no words came.
“i ain’t stupid,” he said, rising from the throne. “i know what this is.”
he stepped toward you again, each stride deliberate.
“you hate me,” he said, stopping just inches away. “but you watch me. every time. you listen. you fight back.”
his hand didn’t touch you. but it hovered just near your jaw. his heat was a weight. your breath quickened.
“ain’t no loyalty in that,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “that’s desire.”
you said nothing.
but you didn’t step back.
he smiled. slow. teeth sharp.
“loyal little queen’s dog,” he said, voice dripping heat. “you ever wonder how it’d feel to break?”
your pulse thudded between your thighs.
but your voice stayed even.
“never,” you whispered.
his eyes dropped — from your lips, to your chest, to the curve of your hips.
“we’ll see.”
his fingers ghosted along your jawline, calloused and hot, but still not touching. erik didn’t rush. no — he never did. dominance for him was earned in slow, suffocating inches. he wanted to watch you squirm under your own restraint. test the shape of your resistance until it shattered on him.
“ain’t gotta say yes,” he murmured, voice low and thick like honey-drenched smoke. “but you ain’t leavin’ either. so what that tell me, hm?”
his thumb dragged — barely — across the curve of your lower lip. your breath hitched. he felt it.
you hated him.
but you wanted him more.
you turned your head just enough to break the spell, stepping back one pace. but that inch was his permission — and he followed, advancing like he owned the ground beneath your feet. your back met the edge of the throne before you realized he’d corralled you there. trapped between carved stone and muscle-thick heat, your body buzzed like war drums. your thighs clenched without command.
“mm,” he laughed, low in his chest. “there she go. wakanda’s finest. thick as the land itself, still actin’ like she ain’t dyin’ to break for me.”
you didn’t respond.
not with words.
you reached for him instead — finally, with fingers curling into the front of his open vest. not a surrender. not exactly. just… the beginning of something too old for language.
his mouth met yours like fire. brutal, claiming. teeth clashing, lips hot. it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet. it was a fight dressed in heat, breath on breath, until you moaned into his mouth and he groaned against your teeth. the taste of him was sweat, blood, and something darker — control.
his hand came down on your ass with a sharp, open slap.
you gasped, clinging harder.
“yeah,” he growled, sliding one thick thigh between yours, forcing them open. “you like that, huh? all that royal pride, but this fat lil pussy tryna talk to me different.”
you rocked against his leg before you even realized it — heat pooling deep between your thighs, clit desperate for friction. the throne room was silent but for your breath and the echo of his voice wrapping around your moans.
“what would t’challa say, huh?” he teased, hand curling around your hip as he pulled you harder against his leg. “his loyal strategist grindin’ on a nigga she swore to kill.”
you bit your lip, tried to turn your face — but he caught your chin in one hand and held you there.
“nah,” he said, low. “you look at me.”
his eyes pinned you in place, molten and unmoving. you couldn’t look away if you tried. not now. not when his fingers slipped beneath your wrap and found your bare skin, dragging slow up the inside of your thigh.
“this what you been hidin’ under all them robes?” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “this fat-ass pussy been waitin’ on me, huh?”
you whined — not in surrender, but need.
he chuckled deep.
“bend over.”
you hesitated.
his gaze sharpened. darkened.
“ngenze njalo.”
the words hit your core like a flame. do as i say.
you obeyed.
hands braced against the throne, you bent for him — thick ass high, legs wide. you heard the hitch in his breath as he stepped back to take in the sight.
then—
smack.
his palm cracked across your cheek again. not too hard. but enough.
“keep that arch,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through your folds from behind. “mm… this shit wet as fuck. and i ain’t even fucked you yet.”
you moaned, low and shivering.
he knelt behind you, breathing hot over your inner thigh. his mouth pressed to your pussy — not kissing, tasting. tongue flat and deliberate, slapping your clit before sucking it with slow precision.
“fuck—!” you gasped, knuckles white on stone.
he didn’t rush. took his time. tongue moving like he owned the rhythm of your body. your thighs trembled, fat and soft against his jaw. he moaned into you like the taste alone was divine.
“you ridin’ me tonight,” he said, rising behind you again, voice thick with hunger. “on my throne. i want them pretty titties bouncin’ while i watch you fall apart.”
you turned as he shed the rest of his vest — then his pants.
his dick hung heavy, thick, the kind of size that made you pause. covered in veins, head dark and already leaking. he stroked it slow while he stared you down.
“come on, queen,” he murmured. “show me what loyalty look like now.”
you climbed onto the throne — his throne — hands braced on his chest, thick thighs spreading over him as you straddled his lap. his hands found your hips, pulling you down so the head of his cock teased your entrance. you both breathed ragged.
then — you sank down.
inch by inch.
his mouth dropped open, teeth grit.
“god damn,” he hissed. “this pussy heavy as fuck.”
you rode him slow at first — adjusting to his size, your walls clenching tight. his eyes never left your face. not once. his hands guided you, rhythm building with every bounce of your thick ass. you bounced harder. louder.
smack.
his palm slapped your ass again. then again. red prints bloomed.
“take that dick,” he growled. “look at you — thick lil loyalist, takin’ a real king’s cock.”
you whimpered, rolling your hips faster, sweat sliding down your throat. your tits bounced, full and heavy, catching his eyes with every thrust.
“say who this pussy belong to,” he demanded.
you moaned, too far gone to think, riding him like salvation. like war. like you hated him — and loved the way he destroyed you.
he grabbed your throat.
“say it.”
you whispered it.
“…you.”
his eyes lit with fire.
he flipped you in one swift motion — your back now against the cold stone of the throne, legs spread as he pounded into you, harder, deeper, cock hitting every spot like he knew you already.
you were nothing now. just gasps. heat. slick. sweat.
he grunted, one hand pressing on your lower belly as he fucked you deeper.
“you feel that?” he rasped. “i’m in there. ain’t no goin’ back now, mama.”
you clawed at him, body coiling tight.
your climax ripped through you like thunder — back arching, mouth open in a silent cry.
he followed seconds later, spilling deep inside you with a growl, hands fisting in your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
you laid there afterward — still on the throne, legs sprawled, his breath heavy on your neck.
Pairing: Elias “Stack” Moore x Mercy (OC) | featuring Erik “Killmonger” Stevens
Summary: Mercy City doesn’t sleep—it smokes, bleeds, and watches. Elias Moore is the Mayor. Chosen. Dangerous. A reformed hustler wrapped in designer fabric and public charm. His wife, Mercy, is his crown—but never his cage. When a masked militant calling himself Killmonger starts carving his name into the city’s criminal underworld, Stack hires him to protect Mercy during a reelection campaign riddled with threats. What starts as protection becomes something darker. Something forbidden. Something alive. Because Killmonger doesn’t want power. He doesn’t want money.
He wants her.
Warnings (18+): Explicit sexual content | Strong language, street-level dialogue | Infidelity | Dubious morals from all characters | Violence | Power imbalance, manipulation | Obsession themes | Mask kink, glove kink, voyeurism | Canon-level Erik Killmonger violence | Cliffhangers & emotional damage 😌
wc: 10k
Prologue
They say Mercy City wasn’t built.
It was bargained for. Bribed into existence. Bought in blood.
And somewhere between the stacked high-rises and half-lit corner stores, a man began rewriting the rules—one bullet, one body, one breath at a time.
He’s called Killmonger.
Not by choice.
By fear.
No one knows where he came from. No records. No face. Only stories. And scars.
They say he walks like silence itself. Dresses in black like grief. That his boots sound like warning shots when they hit the ground. That he only shows up when Mercy’s worst men think they’ve finally bought the world and buried their sins deep enough not to smell.
Then he appears.
Quiet. Focused. Masked.
There’s no monologue. No symbol in the sky.
Only wreckage. Only men with broken jaws and bleeding teeth.
Only secrets ripped from hard drives and corruption hung out like laundry.
Some say he’s ex-military.
Others swear he’s a ghost. A myth. A whisper born from the city’s regret.
But those who’ve seen him know the truth:
He’s real.
And he’s always watching.
He doesn’t save the city.
He saves the girl on the bus. The dealer’s scared little brother. The night nurse walking home alone. The city can rot.
And now?
Now he’s watching her.
The mayor’s wife.
She doesn’t know it yet.
But the mask moves for her now.
And Mercy?
Mercy’s about to find out what happens when a man with nothing left to lose sets his eyes on the one thing he can’t have.
The air in Mercy City always smelled like heat and something broken—gasoline, piss, old money, and ambition. Thick enough to taste. Heavy enough to sit on a man’s chest like a warning. The city didn’t wake up—it came to, like something that blacked out and wasn’t sure who it killed the night before.
The gala was held in the old opera house off Eastmore, a place too historic to demolish and too haunted to properly restore. Outside, black Escalades lined the street like teeth. Inside, champagne flutes clinked over soft jazz and whispered favors, men in suits laughing too loud, women in gowns looking over their shoulders, and somewhere in the middle of it all—stacked higher than the skyline—stood Elias Moore.
Red velvet suit. No tie. Fresh cut. Gold rings. A glass in one hand, a devil’s smirk in the other. His face was everywhere tonight—posters, screens, billboards lit in blue and white that read: REBUILDING MERCY. ONE VOTE AT A TIME.
He didn’t write that slogan. PR did. He hated it. Said it sounded like a fuckin’ band-aid on a bullet wound. But it tested well with white donors uptown, and Stack knew how to shut up when the money was green enough.
From the balcony, you couldn’t hear what he was saying but you could feel the pull. Stack didn’t talk like a politician. He didn’t talk to people—he talked through them. Smooth, reckless, profane. He flirted with every sentence. He cussed on camera and dared them to bleep it. He made mothers clutch pearls and daughters slip phone numbers in his wife’s purse when she wasn’t lookin’.
Mercy stood near the edge of the ballroom, away from the crowd, her bare shoulders lit gold by the chandelier above. Her gown was black, sleek, high at the neck and low at the back, a quiet fuck-you to the women who came overdressed and tried too hard. She never tried. She didn’t have to.
A man brushed past her. The cologne stung. Another offered a drink. She waved it off. She was watching Elias onstage. Not admiring. Calculating.
He looked like a god. He acted like one. But Mercy knew better.
He could kiss babies and slap backs, and five hours later, he’d be on the phone with some judge’s wife, asking how her throat was doing after that weekend in Baton Rouge. Stack hadn’t changed. He’d just upgraded his front. Deep down, he was still that country boy who used to run girls through strip clubs and sell dreams to millionaires who should’ve known better.
And she was the one thing he never finessed. He didn’t pick her—he chose her. Made her his. Told her, “You gon’ be the reason I don’t burn this city to the ground.” She believed him once. Maybe still did, on quiet days.
But the city was getting hotter. People were getting bolder. And something in Elias’ eyes lately told her he smelled war coming.
Her spine stiffened.
Security was changing. Details moved different. Men with new faces started watching her from across the room. One on the stairs. One pretending to talk on the phone. The energy shifted.
She didn’t like it.
Stack stepped down from the stage, a round of applause chasing him like a worship song. He found her fast, palm slipping low against her waist like property, leaning in close.
“You eat yet?” he asked.
“Not hungry.”
“You lyin’. Your stomach get mad at parties.”
“I said I’m fine, Elias.”
He narrowed his eyes. Smiled anyway.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like you forgot what it tastes like.”
Mercy didn’t blink. Just tilted her head.
“You think you’re cute.”
He grinned, close enough for her to feel the heat off his breath.
“I know I’m cute. Question is, why you still married to me if I wasn’t?”
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen once. Smile gone.
Then—just like that—he turned serious, hand tightening at her waist.
“We gotta go. Now.”
“I’m not leaving. You just got here—”
“I said now, Mercy. Ain’t askin’.”
He waved over one of the new guards—tall, dark, built like a threat.
The man didn’t speak. Just nodded once and stepped into place beside her.
Mercy looked him over. Tactical black from head to toe. Combat boots. Thick gloves. Face covered by a matte black mask, eyes half-hidden but watching everything. Stack leaned close again.
“Callin’ himself Killmonger,” he muttered with a smirk. “Like he somebody comic book villain.”
Mercy blinked, amused. “That’s… cute.”
“I mean—really, though. These niggas runnin’ ‘round in the dark like trauma wrapped in a tech suit. Y’all too old to be playin’ Batman with PTSD. And at least that motherfucker wore a cape.”
Killmonger didn’t react. Just turned slightly, placing himself between her and the growing noise from the back exit.
Elias kissed her cheek once. The heat of his mouth lingered. He whispered, low.
“Listen to him. Don’t talk too much. He don’t say shit, but he hear everything.”
Mercy met the man’s eyes through the mask. He said nothing. He just stared. Like he already knew her name. Like he’d already said it—out loud, in the dark, a thousand times. And outside, sirens screamed like something had already gone wrong. Stack slammed the elevator button with the heel of his hand like it owed him something.
“Swear to God, these niggas keep playin’ like I won’t bring the whole damn block down just to prove a point,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Mercy sittin’ pretty in front of cameras while motherfuckers plottin’ on her like she ain’t got a whole warlord standin’ next to her. That’s the shit that piss me off.”
He stormed out onto the private floor of his city office, long after the gala crowd had thinned and the wine had stopped flowing. Still in his velvet suit, collar open, hands twitchy. No entourage. Just tension. Behind him, quiet and exact, Killmonger followed. Mask on. Boots soft against the marble. No sound but his breath.
“Shit’s been bubbling for weeks,” Elias muttered, unlocking the door to his office and throwing it open. “Little threats, coded talk, new money floatin’ through places it don’t belong. But a hit? On her?”
He turned, looked straight at the masked man.
“Walk me through it again.”
Killmonger didn’t hesitate.
“Someone wired seven figures to a ghost account two days ago. Same account used in four other verified hits. This one tagged your wife’s schedule. Not yours.”
Elias stared.
“And you just got that information how?”
Killmonger didn’t answer. Didn’t shift. Just stood still in the center of the office, all that matte black gleaming under soft light. Elias rolled his eyes.
“Right. Forgot I hired a fuckin’ mime.”
“You didn’t hire me,” Killmonger said, voice low and razor-clean. “Yet.”
Stack smirked despite himself. “You right. But I’m about to.”
He walked around to his desk, poured a finger of bourbon, then waved it lazily in Killmonger’s direction.
“Let’s be clear. I don’t need no hype man. No dramatics. You show up, give me a headline like my woman’s on a hit list, but don’t tell me where the fire’s coming from. What I do know? You handled three names on that list like it was nothin’. Didn’t even break stride.”
He sipped.
“I respect that.”
Killmonger didn’t move. Stack set the glass down.
“But if I’m gonna keep my wife alive and my name clean, I need someone with no leash. You understand what I’m sayin’? I don’t want no damn bodyguard.”
“Then don’t call me one.”
Elias nodded slowly. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
He stepped in closer, real close, studying the way the light bent off the curve of the mask. Killmonger didn’t flinch.
“I need a ghost,” Elias said. “Somebody they can’t bribe, can’t follow, can’t trap. I need the kinda shadow that makes a motherfucker lose sleep just knowin’ you in the city.”
“You already got that.”
“Do I?”
Killmonger tilted his head, that visor catching the light just right.
“If I wasn’t here, your wife wouldn’t be.”
Elias froze. Just a tick. But he didn’t argue.
Instead, he nodded, stepped back, and pointed a finger like punctuation.
“Alright then. You on. No contracts. No check-ins. But you keep her alive, and I’ll owe you the kind of favor most men dream of cashin’. You fuck this up, I bury you so deep the devil’ll need a shovel.”
Killmonger gave no reply.
Stack grinned. “I like you. Even if you do look like the off-brand version of every billionaire’s wet dream. What, y’all order these ‘vigilante fits’ in bulk? Ain’t even got no cape, at least Batman had the decency to commit to the bit.”
Nothing. No laugh. No twitch. Elias sighed. “Tough crowd.”
He grabbed his keys. “Come on. Time to make it official.”
Mercy stood barefoot in the penthouse, silk robe draped over brown skin like moonlight wrapped in sin. Hair up, lips bare, glass of neat whiskey in hand. When the door opened, she didn’t turn.
“You’re back early.”
Elias strode in, keys tossed on the counter. “You know how I feel about early. Time is a construct when your name’s on the buildings.”
She turned then—and saw the shadow behind him. Same mask. Same boots. Same pressure in the air. She blinked. Once.
“Didn’t know we were throwing slumber parties now.”
Elias grinned, kissed her cheek, poured himself a drink. “That’s your new shadow.” Mercy looked Killmonger over. Slow. Methodical. Like she was reading a language written in body heat and silence.
“And I didn’t get a say in this… why?”
“You’re too pretty to be unguarded. You know that.”
“I’m also too smart to be blindsided.”
“Mm,” Elias hummed, sipping. “Maybe. But you married me, so that’s debatable.”
Killmonger stood silent, just behind her periphery. Still as death. Mercy felt him, not with her eyes—but with her spine. That subtle ache that says you’re being watched by something you don’t understand yet. She turned.
“Gonna say something? Or do you just breathe heavy and flex?”
He didn’t answer.
Elias chuckled from across the room. “He don’t talk much. That’s what I like about him.”
“I bet.”
She looked again—closer this time. Not at the mask. But at the stillness behind it. She didn’t know who he was. But she knew this—he wasn’t here for the money. And whatever kept him quiet wasn’t loyalty. It was purpose. She swallowed that thought with the rest of her drink. Elias’ phone rang. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, sighed.
“City Manager. Gotta take this.”
He stepped out, down the hall, doors hissing closed behind him. The silence between Mercy and Killmonger landed hard. She didn’t look at him at first. Just walked slowly toward the edge of the foyer, where the windows spilled the city’s lights across her skin. She turned around, arms folded. “Why are you really here?”
A beat.
“To keep you breathing.”
Her breath caught—not enough to show, but just enough to feel. She studied him. No face. No name. No expression. But her pulse was rising. And something in her body whispered: This is not protection. This is a warning with hands. She didn’t look away. And neither did he. The house was too quiet. Not peaceful—quiet. Like a mouth closed over secrets.
Erik Stevens sat barefoot in the center of his million-dollar fortress, shirtless in black sweats, skin still damp from the cold shower he hadn’t even noticed taking. The living room spanned half the house—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment on the other. The walls were clean, the floor polished concrete. No pictures. No warmth. No memories. Just space.
The tech lit up around him in pale blue. Touchscreens blinked alive with city feeds, encrypted communications, facial tracking, GPS intercepts. Erik moved through it all like he was born in it—fingers sliding, tapping, muting, enhancing. Every window on the screen showed Mercy City. Street corners, subways, alleyways. Corruption caught in 4K.
He wasn’t looking at the city tonight. He was looking at Elias Moore.
Stack’s campaign records were spotless on the surface. Donations clean. Property records buried under five LLCs and an offshore trust. But Erik had done this dance before. People always left fingerprints when they thought nobody was watching. Strip club receipts mixed with nonprofit funds. Security footage from a club Elias swore he’d shut down. A list of paid-off reporters, half of them still working with a mic in hand. He zoomed in on one document. Slashed lines through “entertainment expenses.” Large, round numbers listed under “consulting.”
He scoffed. “Still running girls,” he muttered.
But it wasn’t Elias that made his jaw clench.
It was her.
The next screen lit up—photos of Mercy Moore at different events. Public footage. Old interviews. Charity appearances. Gala coverage. He clicked one still frame from the opera house. Her eyes. The way she looked at her husband like she was trying not to flinch. Erik leaned back in his chair, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He watched her move across a room full of people who wanted to touch her, take from her, claim her. And she walked like she owed no one her warmth. He hated that. He hated how much he watched her. He pulled up another file. Not government issued—his file. Compiled with care. Notes, timestamps, routines. Mercy didn’t move like someone protected. She moved like someone trying not to wake whatever beast was watching her. His fingers hovered above the screen, then closed the file.
Time to suit up.
The basement level of Erik’s house looked nothing like the top. Here, everything was black steel, tactical drawers, walls lined with weapons and gear. He stripped in front of the full-length mirror without ceremony. Sweatpants hit the floor. Skin flexed under old scars. He moved like muscle memory. Pulled on the black compression shirt, tactical long-sleeve over it. Cargo pants, fastened and loaded. Combat boots, thick-soled and tight-laced. Gloves last. Then the mask. Always the mask.
He paused a moment, staring at his own reflection—face still visible, eyes cold. Then the mask slid down. Killmonger was home. He walked through the biometric door, silent, invisible to every system except his own. The garage opened. The black SUV purred awake. The house didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t need it to.
The sun hadn’t fully risen when Mercy stepped into the kitchen, silk robe brushing against her ankles, her eyes still soft with sleep. The penthouse was still. Stack was gone—probably barking into some phone, two cities away from actually caring what time it was. She moved quietly. Not because she needed to. But because he was already there. Killmonger stood near the far window, back to her, facing the skyline. Still as stone. Masked. Dressed for war like it was just another day. She hated how aware of him she was. Didn’t mean she stopped watching. She poured coffee without speaking. The mug clinked louder than it should’ve. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush. Just carried it to the table, sat down, and pretended he wasn’t right there. Watching. Listening.
Her robe slipped a little lower on one shoulder. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t look at him. But her skin buzzed. She moved through the space like usual—checking the day’s agenda, flipping through her tablet, scrolling the news. But something about it felt off. Killmonger hadn’t moved. At all. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
“You always stand that still?” she asked casually. “Or is that part of the whole mask mystique?”
“Still is safer.”
His voice, rough silk. Not loud. But sharp enough to slip between her ribs and stay there. She sipped her coffee. Set it down slow. “Well, let me know if blinking becomes a security risk. I’ll leave the lights off.”
He didn’t answer. She stood. Walked past him toward her closet. On the way, their arms nearly brushed. Almost. His head turned just a little, tracking her. She didn’t look back. Inside her closet, she paused, staring at her earrings. She hadn’t put any on. She never forgot earrings. Later that morning, Mercy descended the stairs toward the car, leather heels tapping sharp against concrete. The driver opened the back door, umbrella in hand. She nodded once. Slid inside. Then everything broke.
Two men rushed from behind a column. One grabbed the driver. The other moved for her door. But Killmonger was already moving. She didn’t even see it—just heard it. The thud. The choking sound. The sickening crunch of a jaw cracking under pressure. By the time she turned her head, both men were on the ground. One groaning. The other out cold. Killmonger stood over them. Breathing steady. Adjusting his glove. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.
She stepped into the car without a word.
Rain ticked against the windows like secrets trying to get in. Mercy sat beside him, quiet. Hands folded in her lap.
“You always this good at showing up when I don’t ask?” she murmured.
He said nothing. But the silence said enough. She looked out the window again, but her knee brushed his. Neither of them moved. And for the first time, she wondered what his face looked like when he thought of her. The car ride back to the Moore estate had been silent.
Mercy didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t glance toward the shadow in black seated beside her. She just sat with one leg crossed over the other, one heel gently dangling from her foot, watching the rain drag itself down the window like it was too tired to fall all the way. Her knee still burned where it had brushed his. That heat hadn’t faded.
Now, two hours later, she was cinched into a gold silk dress that shimmered like it was poured over her, and the straps at her collarbone tugged against the softest part of her throat with every movement. She looked perfect. Untouchable. Like money could cry if she told it to.
The fundraiser was already loud—moody jazz, crystal clinks, red velvet, and politicians with too many teeth. It was hosted in the east wing of the Moore estate. Stack had the whole damn wing remodeled just for nights like this—events designed to make him look benevolent while the liquor flowed fast and the cameras stayed on the rich. Mercy stood near the tall windows, wine glass in hand, nodding politely as some councilman’s wife tried to impress her with a sob story about public school grants. She wasn’t listening.
Her eyes kept drifting. Killmonger stood near the wall opposite her, behind two tall potted plants, completely still. Same mask. Same black gear. Same arms crossed like he didn’t have a single fuck left to give. He wasn’t looking at the guests. Not really. He was watching her. Every time she shifted her weight, he shifted his stance. Every time she tilted her head to listen to someone else, she felt his gaze follow the curve of her neck. She told herself she imagined it. Then she turned—quick, sudden, sharp—and caught it. His head didn’t move. But his eyes were already on her. Not wandering. Fixed.
Mercy turned back slow, throat tight. She took a sip of wine, even though her mouth had gone dry.
“You alright, baby?” Elias asked, coming up behind her and pressing a wide palm to the small of her back.
She forced a smile. “Of course.”
He leaned in, breath smelling like whiskey and confidence. “Good. I need you to charm that donor over by the fountain. He got deep pockets and a history of writin’ big checks when he think he got a chance to fuck the wife.”
Mercy side-eyed him. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
Stack grinned. “Ain’t no threat. Let him dream.”
She rolled her eyes but walked toward the fountain anyway, her steps smooth, slow, deliberate. The man was already halfway through his second bourbon and too eager. Grey suit. Rolex. Smile with teeth that didn’t match the tan.
He took her hand too fast. Held on too long.
“You are even more stunning up close, Mrs. Moore.”
She smiled politely. “Thank you. Enjoying the fundraiser?”
“Not as much as I’d enjoy getting you away from it.”
Her jaw flexed. “Bold.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know you’re married. But I also know how… lonely political marriages can be.” She tried to pull her hand back. He didn’t let go. Then the pressure changed. Mercy felt it first—a shift in the air. Like heat moving in. Killmonger was beside her without warning. No sound. No signal. Just presence. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t touch the man. He just stood there. Silent. Too close. The donor’s face changed. Killmonger turned his head just slightly. Just enough to meet the man’s eyes through the mask.
He didn’t say a word.
But the man dropped Mercy’s hand like it burned.
“I—I should check on the catering,” he mumbled, already stepping away.
Killmonger didn’t move. Didn’t even watch him go. His eyes were already back on her. Mercy stared at him, chest tight. He didn’t blink. She spun on her heel and walked fast, heels clicking like a countdown against the marble, breath caught somewhere between rage and something hotter. The balcony was dark, lit only by city glow and the spill of music through the half-cracked door. Mercy gripped the railing, breathing steady through her nose. She hated that man for touching her. She hated Elias for making her deal with it. And she hated that when she felt someone behind her, her heart skipped—not with fear.
But with expectation. She turned before he spoke.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Killmonger said, voice like gravel soaked in honey. Her arms folded across her chest. “You follow me now?”
“You walked out.”
“I don’t need a shadow.”
“You need silence.”
She stilled. He stepped closer—not enough to touch. But enough for her to feel the heat of his body under the gear.
“You always watch people like that?” she asked.
“Only when they’re not safe.”
“I’m not in danger.”
“Not yet.”
She laughed, soft and bitter. “You talk like you’re reading a prophecy.”
“I talk like someone who’s seen what happens when men look at women like that man looked at you.”
Mercy swallowed.
The city behind her was loud. The night air was warm. But everything felt quiet. She turned her body slightly toward him.
“You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. You barely breathe.”
He said nothing. Her eyes dropped to the black mask. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. And yet, she could feel it staring straight through her.
“I don’t even know what you look like.”
“You know enough.”
She didn’t respond.
She didn’t know what she was feeling. Not exactly. But it was starting to bloom in her chest like something sharp and velvet-soft at the same time. A sound behind them. Stack’s voice, calling her name from inside. Mercy turned. Looked at the door. Then back at Killmonger. He was already gone. Like he’d never been there. But she could still feel the heat of his presence clinging to her skin like breath that hadn’t been released. The silk sheets whispered when she turned.
Mercy lay in bed—midnight ink all around her. The blackout curtains, the darkness, the warmth of the sheets, all of it blurred into something heavy and close. She shifted again, arms tangled in the bedding, the lace of her nightgown twisted at her hip. She was warm. Too warm. Her breath came shallow.
In the dream, she wasn’t in bed. She was outside. On a rooftop maybe. Somewhere high. Somewhere open. The wind moved across her skin like hands, and everything smelled like rain and smoke.
She wasn’t cold. She felt watched. But not threatened. Protected. There was someone behind her. She didn’t see him. But she felt him. Close. Big. Quiet. His breath moved against the back of her neck like it had been there all night and only just now let itself be felt.
She turned—but only halfway. He was still behind her. Still inches away. She could hear the sound of his gloves tightening. She didn’t speak.
Neither did he. But her body did. Her pulse raced. Her chest rose. Her mouth parted like it knew something her brain didn’t. She backed into him—slow, uncertain—and his hands came down to her waist, heavy and sure. They didn’t touch skin. Just fabric. But it felt like the world opened up under her feet. In the dream, she wasn’t Mercy Moore. She wasn’t a politician’s wife. She wasn’t performing. She was just a woman. Being held. Her hands found his wrists. She didn’t pull away. She leaned back. He moved with her. She turned into him, finally. Still masked. Still silent. His eyes locked on hers.
Her hand came up—slow, trembling. She touched the side of his mask, her fingers brushing the edge like she could trace his name through it. He didn’t stop her.
She whispered, “Say something.”
And he did.
Just one word.
“Mine.”
Then he kissed her.
No hesitation. No fear. Just pressure. Mouth to mouth. The kind of kiss that folds time. That presses you flat and wakes your blood up. His hands didn’t grope. They held. Firm. Wanting. Certain.
She kissed him back like she’d been starving for it. Like her mouth had waited its whole life for this one shape, this one taste, this one man. Her fingers slid up the back of his neck. His gloved hand cupped her jaw. She moaned softly, lost in the way his breath filled her lungs like he belonged there. The wind rose. The city faded. There was only him. His mouth. His body. His name, which she didn’t know, and didn’t need. Because her soul already did. She woke up gasping.
The sheets were tangled around her thighs. Her neck damp with sweat. Her hand clenched in the blanket like she was still holding something. The bedroom was still dark. Still quiet. Stack wasn’t home. Her chest heaved. She ran a hand down her body. Her skin was on fire. She closed her eyes again. But the feeling didn’t fade.
She still felt the kiss.
Still felt the gloves.
Still heard that voice say, “Mine.”
And she didn’t know if it scared her more… Or if she wanted to dream it again.
The sunlight was syrup-thick, slipping through the slats in the blinds and laying gold across the sheets like it had something to confess. Mercy stirred first, her body waking before her mind. The heat pressed against her from behind—warm breath on her neck, a hand already low on her hip, palm flat against bare skin.
She didn’t need to turn around. Stack always woke up hard and hungry. His hand slid lower, groaning softly as he pulled her hips back into him.
“Mornin’, baby.”
His voice was low. Sleep-rough. That particular kind of husky men only get when they’ve got a plan for you before you’ve even opened your eyes. Mercy stretched just enough to let her nightgown ride higher on her thighs.
Stack kissed her shoulder. Bit it.
“You feelin’ needy or generous this mornin’?” he murmured.
“Whichever one keeps you quiet,” she whispered back, smiling.
He chuckled—dark and slow.
“You talk that shit now…”
His hand slid between her legs and found her already soft and wet. He inhaled. “Goddamn. Always ready for me.”
He flipped her onto her back in one move, mouth on hers before she could answer. No warm-up. No hesitation. Just mouth, tongue, grip. His kiss was greedy, like he hadn’t touched her in weeks. Mercy moaned against his lips, wrapping her legs around his waist as his hips settled between her thighs. He was already thick and pulsing when he pushed in.
And God… it was good.
It always was.
Elias didn’t fuck her like a husband. He fucked her like a man still trying to make her fall in love with him every time. His rhythm was relentless but controlled. Every stroke deep. Every grip tight.
He kissed her throat, bit her collarbone, slid his hand under the back of her thigh and lifted it for better angle.
Mercy gasped. Her eyes fluttered. But she wasn’t seeing him. She was seeing black gloves pinning her hips. She was seeing a mask over her. She was hearing the word mine in a voice not rough with love—but heavy with claim. Elias moved faster, hips snapping, sweat starting to sheen across his chest.
“You feelin’ me?” he growled, breath stuttering.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“You know I love this pussy. Say it. Say who it belong to.”
Mercy’s hands dug into the sheets.
Her mouth opened. And she moaned, “Elias.”
But her mind whispered his name. The kiss. The weight. The gloves.
She came like she always did—with her husband deep inside her and someone else’s shadow pressed against the wall of her mind.
Later, while Stack was in the shower, humming some old soul song like a man with no sins, Mercy walked barefoot toward the hallway. Her robe dragged behind her, hair still damp with sweat, thighs still sore.
She paused at the front door. There, on the floor beside the security console, lay a single glove. Black. Tactical. Left hand. It didn’t belong there. She bent down slowly. Picked it up. Thick. Heavy. Warm to the touch like it still held a pulse. She should’ve turned it in. Should’ve told Elias. But she didn’t. Mercy stood there for a long time with the glove in her hand, staring at the door like it had whispered something. She brought it to her bedroom. Tucked it in the drawer beside the bed. Didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Didn’t sleep.
Across the estate, in the dim hum of the private surveillance room, Killmonger leaned back in the black leather chair, arms folded across his chest, legs wide, still in full gear.
The screens bathed him in cold blue light. His mask sat on the desk beside him, forgotten for now. He didn’t need it here. Not while watching.
One screen showed the bedroom. He’d watched it all.
The way Elias touched her. The way her body moved. The way she came with her mouth gasping that man’s name. But her eyes? Her eyes were closed. Tightly. Too tightly.
Killmonger’s jaw flexed. His breath was slow but deep, nostrils flaring as the scene played over again—Elias kissing her shoulder, Mercy’s body arching, the sweat on her neck. The sounds were off, but he didn’t need them. He could feel her reactions. Count her breaths. Know the difference between surrender and escape. He exhaled hard through his nose. Sat forward. Elbows on knees. His hands twitched. And still, he watched. He didn’t blink until the footage jumped forward. Stack gone. Shower running. Mercy alone now, robe clinging to her like a secret. She walked toward the front door. Bent down. Picked it up. His glove.
Killmonger’s lips parted just slightly. His head tilted.
She stared at it like she could feel the heat still on it. She didn’t call security. Didn’t throw it out. She took it back to the bedroom. Opened her drawer. Tucked it inside. Kept it.
That’s when he smiled. Wide. Slow. Dark.
Like the game had just shifted and he was the only one who knew it. He sat back again, still watching her. Still breathing deep. She hadn’t washed her hands. She hadn’t closed the drawer. She didn’t even realize… She’d already started choosing him. And he wasn’t planning to give her a way out. The front doors creaked open just after seven.
Killmonger stepped into the Moore estate like he owned oxygen. The matte black mask cloaked his face in shadow, expressionless, eyes unreadable. His boots hit the marble with weight, every step exact—controlled like muscle memory. The air changed the second he entered. Softer. Tenser. Like the house knew to behave.
He didn’t speak.
Just shut the door behind him without a sound.
All black. Tactical pants. Fitted long sleeve layered under gear Elias never had the clearance to ask about. Gloves already on. A sleek tablet under one arm.
He moved like shadow made flesh.
Stack was in the living room, pacing and yelling into his phone.
“I don’t care what it cost, just find a fuckin’ organ that works and get the choir some suits that don’t look like they was snatched off barbershop mannequins—”
He turned. Caught the movement.
Paused.
“Well damn. The spirit of death himself,” Elias muttered. “Right on time.”
Killmonger nodded once. No words.
He walked over to the glass table, set the tablet down, and opened it. City schematics flickered to life—streets, exits, escape routes, digital map glowing red and blue.
He pointed at the screen.
“New driver today. Route changed. Decoy vehicle staged two blocks east. If anything jumps, she stays in the primary car. You ride in the backup.”
His voice came low through the mask. Filtered, but clear. Heavy. Confident.
Elias blinked. “Goddamn. You eat today or just meditate in the dark and scare angels?”
Killmonger didn’t respond.
“Yo, is it me, or this nigga talkin’ more lately?” Elias smirked. “I’m almost concerned.”
He turned, just as Mercy walked in.
She was draped in cream silk and quiet power. Hair pulled back. Earrings glinting. Soft makeup that made her cheekbones look sharper. The kind of woman who made rooms feel unworthy.
Her eyes met the mask.
Just for a second.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even nod this time.
But she felt it anyway. That stare crawling over her skin.
She walked past him like she didn’t feel heat trail in her wake.
But her pulse skipped once.
She knew it did.
They were in the car fifteen minutes later.
Killmonger behind the wheel. Stack up front, legs wide, scrolling through phone calls he didn’t plan to return. Mercy sat in the backseat behind Killmonger, long legs crossed, gaze calm. But her fingers? Resting too still on her clutch.
“Yo,” Elias said suddenly, not looking up. “You talkin’ more. I’m serious.”
Killmonger adjusted the rearview. Said nothing.
“You get some pussy recently or somethin’? You got that glow. Like you snuck out last night and told a bitch your name was Marvin.”
The silence thickened.
Killmonger didn’t laugh.
Didn’t react.
But Mercy shifted in the back.
Her knee brushed the seat.
She stayed quiet.
Elias chuckled to himself. “Shit, maybe you a silent lover too. That’s how they do it now, huh? Whisper nothin’, wear a mask, then disappear before breakfast.”
Killmonger’s voice slid low, mechanical through the filter. “If I ever disappear, it won’t be before breakfast.”
Elias turned, eyebrows raised. “Oh. Oh. Okay, okay, my bad. My man said he don’t eat cereal, he serve full-course warnings.”
Mercy hid her smile in the window reflection.
Outside, the clouds were thickening. Gray. Swollen.
She caught his mask again in the rearview—expressionless, quiet, still watching.
And something in her gut knew:
This wasn’t just a church visit. This was a storm.
The church loomed like an accusation.
Old stone, rain-streaked and grumbling under the weight of its own history. The cathedral sat on Holloway and 9th—wedged between a shut-down shelter and an abandoned nunnery. Stack had plans to gut and rebuild it as part of his “Mercy Rises” initiative.
Mercy hated that name.
She hated the way he used hers to sell redemption to a city too bruised to believe in it.
The photo-op was staged like a baptism.
Cameras.
Flashbulbs.
Choir robes pressed and pinned. Politicians standing shoulder to shoulder with fake smiles and folded hands. Elias in his gray overcoat and white turtleneck, charming the press like he hadn’t just called one of them a “dusty bitch with a camera fetish” two weeks ago.
Mercy stood off to the side in a long navy trench, heels echoing on the wet cathedral tile. Killmonger stood behind her, motionless, masked as always.
Every time thunder rolled outside, the stained-glass windows rattled like bones in a box.
The interview ended. The flashbulbs dimmed.
Then the storm dropped hard and fast—black sky, sideways rain, power lines shaking. The city went hush.
The power inside the church flickered once.
Then failed.
Only the soft glow of old votive candles lit the room now, little fires trembling in glass jars.
Someone yelled something about waiting it out.
The crowd thinned. Some ran for the vans. Staff scattered to coordinate.
Stack had somewhere to be.
He grabbed Mercy by the arm. “You good? They sending a backup car in ten.”
“I’m fine.”
He looked past her at Killmonger. “She yours ‘til I get back.”
He kissed her cheek fast. Left.
Just like that.
And now it was just them.
The cathedral doors groaned shut behind the last of the team.
Rain hammered the stained glass. Thunder curled down the stone halls like a growl.
Mercy walked slow along the pews, trailing a hand along the worn wood, her footsteps soft in the silence. The candles cast gold shadows across her face, making her cheekbones sharper, her lips darker.
She spoke without turning.
“Why’d they name you Killmonger?”
A pause.
Then his voice behind her.
“They didn’t.”
She stopped. Looked over her shoulder.
He stood near the altar steps. Tall. Still. Mask gleaming faint in the low light.
“So what’s your real name?”
Silence.
He didn’t answer.
She let a small breath go. Turned back. “Right. Forgot. Mystery is part of the look.”
A crack of thunder split the silence.
The candles swayed.
Mercy touched the edge of the marble altar, fingers cold.
She didn’t know why she said it—but it slipped out like breath under pressure.
“I don’t feel safe anymore.”
She said it quiet.
Raw.
Not to him, really. Not for sympathy. Just… out loud.
But he heard it.
And then he was there.
Close.
Closer than he’d ever stood.
His presence folded over her like heat.
She didn’t flinch when he reached out.
One gloved hand lifted slowly. Careful. Like she was made of something fragile and flammable. His thumb brushed just beneath her eye.
He wiped something away—mascara, maybe. A tear she didn’t know she’d shed.
His hand lingered longer than necessary.
Still, they didn’t touch skin.
But God, it felt like it.
Mercy’s breath caught.
Her eyes lifted.
And even behind the mask, she could feel him watching her like he was searching for something buried in her bones.
“Why’d your parents name you after the city?” he asked, voice low, not mechanical now—intimate.
She blinked.
“I was born in the east ward. During a riot. City was burning two miles down, and my mom said she wanted to name me after something that needed saving.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “She did.”
Mercy’s jaw twitched.
They were standing too close now. The air between them too thick, too charged, too honest.
She should’ve moved.
She didn’t.
She leaned forward—
Not enough to kiss.
But enough to feel how close it would be.
Enough to know how easy it would be to ruin everything.
She whispered, “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
He didn’t move.
“Then stop lookin’ back.”
Another crack of thunder.
And from down the hall, a door slammed.
Voices.
The spell snapped.
Mercy stepped back first.
He didn’t.
And that silence between them stayed burning—like the last candle in a room full of smoke.
The car ride back from the cathedral was quiet.
But not the peaceful kind.
Mercy sat in the backseat, staring out the window. Her reflection stared back—lips slightly parted, pulse still stuttering in her throat.
Every time the car shifted lanes, her shoulder brushed the back of Killmonger’s seat.
He didn’t react.
But she knew he felt it.
She wanted him to.
Stack sat next to her, humming something off-key, texting with someone he’d lie about later. He didn’t notice the way she adjusted in her seat. The way she pressed her knees forward. Closer. Closer.
Not touching.
But almost.
The next morning, the rhythm changed.
Killmonger opened the door for her like always. But she didn’t breeze past him like before.
She paused.
She stood in the open doorway, eyes dragging up his frame slow—boots to gloves to mask.
“Good morning,” she said, voice velvet-thin.
He nodded.
“Morning.”
Their voices were quiet. Private.
Elias yelled something down the hall, already late, already annoyed.
Killmonger stepped aside to let her pass.
But this time?
She brushed his arm when she walked by.
On purpose.
And when his head turned slightly—just enough to follow her walk—she didn’t hide her smile.
That afternoon, she sat in the backseat again. Legs crossed, one heel slipping off her foot, her scarf loose around her throat like she wanted someone to fix it.
Killmonger glanced at her in the mirror once.
Then again.
She caught it.
Didn’t blink.
“I think I dropped something,” she said, voice low.
Elias looked up from his phone. “What?”
She shook her head. “Not you.”
She bent slightly, reached toward the floor, fingers slow. Her scarf slipped further. Killmonger didn’t speak. But his grip on the steering wheel got tighter.
She stayed down a second too long.
When she sat up, their eyes met in the mirror.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
She looked away first.
Later, in the penthouse lobby, Elias got a call and stepped into the elevator early, waving over his shoulder. “Y’all take the next one.”
The doors closed.
Mercy turned to Killmonger.
He stood with his hands behind his back, face still hidden.
She stepped into the space beside him.
Close enough to share breath.
She whispered, “Do you ever get tired of watching me?”
His voice came slow, thick through the modulator.
“No.”
She exhaled. “Not even when I make it hard?”
“I like hard.”
She looked up at him, heart thudding.
Then the next elevator dinged open.
They didn’t move for a second.
Then she walked in.
He followed.
No one spoke.
But the silence said everything.
That night, she left her scarf on the armrest of the backseat.
He picked it up.
Held it.
Didn’t fold it.
Didn’t turn it in.
Just stared at it in his hand for a long, long time.
The rain had been steady all evening, ticking against the glass like a countdown nobody could stop. The penthouse was quiet, wrapped in warm gold light, the kind you could almost mistake for peace if you didn’t know better.
Mercy sat curled on the left arm of the L-shaped couch, barefoot, robe draped soft around her thighs. A glass of wine balanced in her hand, untouched. Her eyes were on the screen, but her attention was elsewhere. Elias was sprawled across the other side of the couch, still in his dress shirt from the day, top button undone, tie tossed over the cushion like it owed him money.
The news was playing an interview on loop—footage from outside the downtown mayor’s office. Elias on the steps, giving one of his signature off-the-cuff soundbites while cameras swarmed like gnats. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read:
MAYOR MOORE FACES HEAT FOR HIRING MASKED VIGILANTE “KILLMONGER”
A clip rolled:
Reporter: “Mr. Moore—some say you’ve undermined your own platform by bringing in a known violent actor as your wife’s protection detail. What do you say to citizens who feel less safe with Killmonger on your payroll?”
Elias chuckled, even now, from the comfort of his couch. “Same thing I said then,” he said toward the screen. “Y’all afraid of him ‘cause you can’t tell him what to do.”
He sipped his drink. “That’s why I like him.”
Mercy didn’t laugh.
Her eyes flicked across the room.
He was sitting in the kitchen—legs wide, posture casual, but everything about him sharp enough to draw blood. Killmonger, in his mask and gear, gloved fingers scrolling through blueprints on a digital tablet. Boots planted. One knee bouncing slow, steady, like a clock he kept in his own chest.
He hadn’t looked at the screen once.
But he was listening.
Always listening.
The light from the stove flickered just enough to catch the gloss of his mask.
Mercy turned back to the screen.
The interview continued.
“We’ve had rumors that Moore and Killmonger don’t always see eye to eye. You’ve been publicly critical of vigilantes, Mr. Mayor. What changed?”
The camera cut back to Elias, smug in the rain, hand on his heart like a preacher.
“Difference is—I trust him with what matters.”
Mercy didn’t blink.
She stood up slowly. “I want tea,” she said, voice low.
Elias waved a lazy hand. “You want me to send someone—?”
“I got it.”
She padded barefoot across the wood floor, the hem of her robe whispering behind her like smoke. She passed behind Killmonger’s chair and her hip just barely brushed the edge.
He didn’t flinch.
But she felt the shift in the air.
In the kitchen, she opened the cabinet slowly. Reached for the mug on the highest shelf. Stretched up—just enough. She could feel the robe part slightly along the back of her thigh.
Still no movement.
She reached for the kettle. Clicked it on.
Silence wrapped around them like cotton.
She glanced over.
He still hadn’t looked up.
Still scrolling. Still reading.
But his knee had stopped bouncing.
She leaned against the counter. Let the steam rise.
“That interview made you famous,” she said quietly.
His voice came slow through the modulator.
“I was famous when I put the mask on.”
She sipped her tea. “Why wear it inside?”
He didn’t answer at first.
Then—
“‘Cause inside’s where the real threats live.”
She turned.
He was watching her now.
Head tilted slightly. Mask reflecting candlelight and quiet violence.
She walked closer. Mug still in hand. No armor but her breath and bare legs.
“You always watching me,” she whispered. “But do you actually see me?”
He leaned back in the chair—just a little. Enough for tension to snap like elastic.
“Every second,” he said.
The silence that followed was long. Thick.
Mercy’s throat worked. Her hands tightened around the mug.
He tilted his head again. A breath deeper this time.
Then—
“You still got my glove in your drawer.”
Her breath caught.
He didn’t move.
Just let the weight of it sit there between them. That reminder that even when she thought she was alone—he knew. Even when she hid something, even something small, he saw.
Her voice dropped to almost nothing.
“You shouldn’t know that.”
“Didn’t need cameras,” he said. “You held it like it meant something.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
The air between them grew hot. Stifling.
Every part of her felt exposed.
And he didn’t reach for her. Didn’t touch her.
Just existed. Fully. Heavier than gravity.
She stepped in closer, now barely a breath away.
“You like watching me, huh?”
“Don’t gotta like it,” he murmured. “It’s a habit now.”
She swallowed hard.
Behind her, Elias called out from the couch, voice lazy and distant.
“Mercy! They re-runnin’ that clip where I cursed out the councilman. Come see this shit!”
She jumped slightly.
Stepped back.
Breathless.
Killmonger didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just let her leave the heat of the kitchen like a woman walking out of a fire she wasn’t sure burned her—or branded her.
She sat next to Elias.
He threw his arm around her. Pulled her close.
She didn’t speak.
On the TV, the screen showed her husband smiling for the cameras.
In the kitchen, Killmonger leaned back in the chair again.
Still.
Silent.
Watching her.
Watching everything.
The night had teeth.
Not the kind that bit—just the kind that grazed skin slow, like a warning. Like the air itself knew something was coming.
Mercy stepped out of the glass-walled office building and into the private car waiting under the covered awning. She didn’t shiver, but the wind caught the hem of her coat and lifted it like a secret. The silk of her dress clung tight to her hips, black and understated, with a slit so high it wasn’t modest—it was precise. Meant to make a man wonder. Meant to make a man look.
Killmonger opened the door without a word. She slid in without looking at him. Not at first.
The leather seats were cold. The interior smelled like iron, leather, and the faintest hint of clove from whatever he wore under that mask. He got in. Started the car. Didn’t say shit. For five blocks, they rode in silence. Then Mercy shifted her legs. Crossed them slow. Let her heel drop, like an accident. When they pulled up to Moore Tower, he got out and opened her door. She stepped close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest on the way out. Not an accident.
He swiped the elevator key. The doors slid open. Mercy stepped in. He followed.
And the air sealed around them like a locked secret. He didn’t stand behind her tonight. He stood beside her. Right there. Right at her heat. Right where she could smell him.
She pressed her floor. He didn’t press his. The elevator glided upward, slow enough to feel like a dare. Mercy didn’t turn her head — just her voice.
“You’ve been quiet tonight.”
His voice came through the mask low and rough.
“You’ve been loud.”
Her smile curled. “That a complaint?”
No answer.
Only the sound of their breath mingling in the small metal space.
She turned toward him fully now, leaning back against the mirrored wall, letting her robe slip open enough for him to see the rise of her breasts under silk.
“You always watching me,” she said softly. “But do you actually see me?”
His head tilted. Then she stepped right into him. Close enough her tits brushed the front of his vest. Close enough his breath hit her lips through the mask. Close enough she could feel his dick getting hard in those tactical pants. She dragged her palm up his chest, slow as honey, until it rested just under his jawline, fingers grazing the edge of the mask.
“I still have your glove,” she whispered.
His breath hitched — just a little. Not enough for anyone else to catch. But she wasn’t anyone else. Her lips hovered against the mouth of the mask.
“What do I have to do,” she breathed, “to have your mask?”
Everything in him snapped. Not wild. Not sloppy. Just decisive. Killmonger grabbed her waist, dragged her against him, and pressed her back into the wall with a force that knocked a tiny gasp out of her. Her hands flew up to his vest, clutching fabric, holding onto him like she’d been falling for weeks. He didn’t kiss her with lips — the mask stayed on but he kissed her with need, with intention, with the kind of hunger that made her knees tremble.
His hands explored her hips, her ass, the curve of her thigh — greedy but controlled, gloved fingers gripping her through silk. Her breath shook. His chest pressed hard against hers. She could feel his dick now thick, hard, straining pressed against her lower belly through fabric and armor. She lifted her leg against his hip, opening herself for him, inviting him like a sin whispered in the dark.
He didn’t ask permission. He just answered the call. His hand slid beneath her dress, and she gasped, her head hitting the wall as his fingers found her pussy already wet for him.
“Fuck—” she breathed, not bothering to hide it.
He growled low through the mask, a sound that vibrated right down her spine. And then he pushed his hips forward. Not graphic. Not brutal. Just enough for her to feel the heavy pressure of him pressing right against the heat of her pussy through the thin barrier of her panties. Her whole body shivered.
“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking open. “Don’t tease me.”
He didn’t.
One rough pull of fabric.
One slow, devastating push of his hips —
And suddenly he was inside her.
Mercy’s breath shattered.
Her fingers clawed into his shoulders as her back arched off the wall, silk falling open around her like it was bowing to the moment.
“Fuck—Killmonger…” she gasped, biting her lip hard enough to shake.
He held her up with one strong arm, his other hand gripping her thigh so tight she’d feel the fingerprints tomorrow. He didn’t talk. Didn’t have to. His body told her everything the hunger, the claim, the fury, the possession.
The elevator kept rising, slow and steady, humming like it could feel them. She moved with him, hips rolling, breath hitching, her cheek pressed to the side of his mask now because she was too gone to hold herself up. Her pussy clenched around him — hot, wet, hungry, and he shifted his stance, burying himself deeper.
Mercy moaned into his neck. Raw. Unfiltered. Honest.
The elevator dinged. Her floor. Neither of them stopped. He held her tighter. She whispered his name again. The doors didn’t open.
He must’ve locked them. And Mercy?
She didn’t care. Not when he was inside her like that.
Not when her whole body was trembling on the edge.
Not when she felt him throb deep and answer every frantic beat of her heart. There was no city outside the elevator. No marriage. No logic. Just him. Just her. Just the heat that finally broke loose. And a mask she planned to earn.
The sun didn’t rise so much as it peeled back the night. Pale and unforgiving.
Mercy woke tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat, silk, and a mistake she couldn’t undo. Her legs ached. Her lips were sore. Her panties were missing. The dress she’d worn last night—slit up the side, silk clinging to skin like memory—was bunched around her thighs like some kind of confession.
She sat up.
Her hands were trembling.
The mirror across the room caught her reflection like a snitch. Hair wild. Shoulder bare. Lips swollen. Eyes still dark with the kind of hunger that didn’t fade just because the body was done.
She stood.
Walked to the mirror in slow steps.
She didn’t recognize herself. Not all the way.
The woman in the glass looked… fed. Touched. Owned.
But the space beside her in bed was still cold.
She looked down.
No messages.
She opened her texts. Her call log. Nothing.
Not even a blocked number or a “you good?” Nothing.
Her hand slipped between her thighs, instinctive, slow. She winced. Still sore.
Her fingers came back wet.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
The door opened.
She flinched hard backed away from the mirror as if it bit her.
Elias.
Of course.
He stepped in casual, early, bags under his eyes and a coffee cup in each hand. His tie was loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.
“Damn, baby. You look like last night.”
She forced a smile. Pulled her robe tighter.
“Didn’t expect you this early.”
“Missed you,” he said. “Campaign’s startin’ to feel like prison. You still make it smell like freedom in here.”
He leaned in to kiss her.
She turned her head at the last second.
He paused.
Pulled back just enough to squint.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” she lied, too soft, too quick.
He sniffed her neck.
Brows drew together.
“You smell different.”
Mercy’s throat dried.
“Perfume sample they gave me at the charity thing.”
He looked at her a second too long.
Then shrugged. “It’s nice. But you don’t need it.”
She smiled again.
Fake this time.
They went about the morning like normal people. Eggs. Toast. He read headlines out loud. She nodded. Laughed once at something she didn’t hear.
But her body was elsewhere. Her thoughts were locked inside chrome elevator walls and gloved hands and the sound of her own moan when he—
No.
She stood fast. “I need air.”
The surveillance room was empty.
No sign of him. No trace of boots. The monitor was still warm, though—like he’d been there and ghosted.
She scrolled the feed.
No footage from last night.
The whole block of time? Erased.
Her heart thudded low in her chest.
She checked the hallway cam.
Nothing.
The elevator?
Clean.
Too clean.
He wiped it.
She sat in the chair, breathing like someone had stolen the oxygen from the room.
The only thing that made it real was the ache between her thighs.
Evening crawled in slow. The sky turned the color of bruised peaches. The city lights blinked alive one by one, like gossip starting to spread.
Mercy stepped out onto the balcony with a cigarette she didn’t remember buying.
She lit it. Inhaled.
Coughed.
Didn’t care.
The smoke made her eyes water.
She whispered into the wind, “What the fuck did I do?”
No answer.
Not until later.
Across the city, deep in the hills beyond Mercy’s skyline, Erik Stevens sat in a room made of glass and silence.
His compound was buried in trees, protected by top-level encryption and automated defenses no one knew existed. Inside, the walls glowed faint blue from the light of twenty monitors.
He didn’t need all the screens tonight.
Just one.
The one with her face on it.
She was asleep. Or pretending to be. Curled toward the empty pillow. One hand under her cheek, the other beneath the pillow.
He knew what was there.
She hadn’t washed it.
Didn’t hide it.
Still wearing his name.
Erik sat back, knuckles still bruised from earlier—some low-level hitter who thought Mercy was a pawn and Stack was soft.
He’d made sure that man would never touch anything again.
He hadn’t contacted her.
He couldn’t.
If he did, he’d go back. And if he went back, he wasn’t stopping this time.
He turned off the feed.
Leaned his head back.
Tried to exhale her.
Didn’t work.
She was in his blood now.
The room was dark when Mercy’s phone lit up.
She blinked awake, squinting at the glow.
No number.
Just a file.
She hesitated.
Tapped it.
The screen filled with her own body.
Her voice. Her moans. Her fingers clawing a black vest.
She gasped.
It was them.
Elevator walls.
Gloved hands.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth open, hips moving, his breath ragged through the mask
She dropped the phone.
Stared at it.
Chest heaving.
The screen went black.
Then flashed again.
One word.
Just one.
More.
It’d been three days.
Three long, slow, fucking silent days.
Mercy sat in the backseat of the armored SUV with her legs crossed, fingers drumming against her thigh. Outside, the city blurred by in grays and smog. Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.
He wasn’t there.
Killmonger hadn’t shown since the elevator.
No goodbye. No check-in. No lurking in shadows or standing by the door in that mask like her sins had grown legs.
Just gone.
And she felt it.
In her bones.
In the place between her thighs that stayed swollen with memory.
Elias glanced at her from the passenger seat. “You good?”
She nodded.
Didn’t answer.
Because what the fuck was she supposed to say? Yeah, I’m fantastic. Just thinking about how I let a masked stranger fuck me stupid in the building you paid for while his name was on my lips and his dick was inside me.
Yeah. That wasn’t gonna fly.
They were headed to a campaign lunch—some garden atrium PR thing with cameras and white folks who didn’t know where Mercy City even began. She barely listened as Elias briefed her on who to greet, what to say, how to smile like the bulletproof Black woman they needed her to be.
She wasn’t listening.
Her phone was in her hand. Glove still in her bedside drawer. She hadn’t moved it.
She didn’t want to.
It still smelled like him.
Like leather and something dangerous.
She stepped out onto the atrium patio when it hit.
Not a sound.
A feeling.
Goosebumps up her spine. A sting in her teeth.
Then—
Pop. Pop.
Gunshots.
Loud. Echoing.
Screams.
Chaos broke open like a dam.
Mercy ducked low. Kicked her heels off. Ran.
Blood hit her leg. She didn’t know whose.
She turned a corner—and there he was.
Shooter.
Black vest. Rifle.
He saw her.
Lifted the barrel.
She couldn’t move.
Couldn’t even scream.
And then—
The air ripped.
A blur of black slammed into the man from the side, dragging him down with bone-snapping speed.
Killmonger.
The mask. The boots. The gloves.
He was back.
He rose slow, blood dripping down his arm. A blade in one hand, her name in his eyes.
“You hurt?”
She shook her head, chest heaving.
He stepped closer. Scooped her up.
Like she weighed nothing.
And he was gone again—out the back, away from the cameras, carrying her through fire like she was his.
Hospital lights hummed overhead.
Mercy blinked awake under a white blanket with a blood pressure cuff digging into her arm.
Elias sat by the window, jaw tight, phone in hand.
She shifted.
He looked up. Eyes wild.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
She nodded.
He walked over, bent down, kissed her forehead.
But she wasn’t thinking about Elias.
She was thinking about the blood on that mask. The way Killmonger had looked at her when the knife dropped. Not like she was in danger.
Like he was.
Because of her.
She turned toward the door.
He wasn’t there.
Not this time.
⸻
That night, Elias sat alone in his study. Tie undone. Whiskey sweating in his glass. The TV played muted footage of the assassination attempt on loop.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it.
No name. No number. Just a file.
He stared for a long second.
Tapped it.
The video filled the screen.
Her.
Him.
The elevator.
The silk of her dress riding up.
His gloved hand around her throat.
Her body trembling, lips parting—
“Killmonger.”
She said it again.
Louder.
Shameless.
Desperate.
Elias watched. Every second. Every movement. Until the screen faded.
Yani held onto the hand of her baby sister Anika, as her middle sister Dawnette gushed over meeting Tahir. Anika told their entourage of women—Twyla, Zola, Ilana—the story of Killmonger and Tahir spending the night at their Aunt Leona's cramped apartment when she was sixteen and impressionable. But now that she was in her early twenties and legal, she had the right of first dibs on the handsome foreigner to Wakanda.
They entered the banquet venue's snazzy restroom where a full sitting room/powder room was set up before one even made it to the restrooms in a separate section. Checking their make-up and showering the room with their loud gossip over men and available bachelors, Yani noticed Ime in a corner with four other women seated on plush chairs chatting. Anika and Dawnette followed Twyla into the restroom to relieve themselves of wine and other spirits passed around for the after dessert libations. Yani took note of a few other noblewomen clucking together in their various groupings parceled about using wall mirrors to fix hair, and check make-up.
It was obvious that women snuck glances at Yani and she smiled while passing others to get to Ime.
"Princess Yani," Ime said.
Ime stood quickly and her friends did too, showing Yani respect.
"Leave us please…I would like to speak with Ime," Yani said.
Zola and Ilana walked away and kept watch over her for any intrusions.
"Shall we chat for a moment?" Yani said.
Ime nodded and Yani led her to some chairs in a corner that faced away from the other women in the room giving them some privacy.
"I wanted to talk to you about our relationship going forward. After I marry King N'Jadaka, I will be having a series of special events throughout Birnin Zana. Private teas, luncheons, and of course, the Queen's Ball. You and I will see a lot of each other because of Ramatla's position working for my husband."
"Of course."
Ime's voice was sweet as pie, but Yani wasn't keen on her maintaining a façade any longer.
"I know you don't like me. No need for us to pretend that you give a fuck about what I think about you."
Ime's eyes widened and several women within hearing distance moved away quickly to avoid catching strays. Hushed voices spread throughout the powder room and every woman not connected to Yani or Ime vacated the premises immediately. Zola and Ilana strolled over to the restroom toilet entrance to provide interference in case their party came out.
Ime pulled her shoulders back and lifted her head higher. She regarded Yani as a worthy adversary. Her mask fell away.
"It is true. I do not like you. You aren't fit to be queen—"
"You uncouth bitch!" Zola snapped.
Ilana held Zola back.
"I'm a bitch?" Ime said, slanting her gaze toward Zola. "You disloyal witches were so quick to scuttle over to her side that you threw away years of our friendship…and for what? A chance to be around the king?"
Yani glanced at Zola and Ilana. Ime craned her neck back and folded her arms over her chest. Her gaze burned into Yani's face.
"Do you know how many eligible women here that are better than you who would kill to have N'Jadaka Udaku?" Ime said.
"I know you are one of them," Yani said.
Ime didn't flinch. Her lips twisted into a devilish smirk.
"You are damn right. I was one of those women. Had you or that other one not showed up, I'd be in your place right now."
"Listen to this hussy!" Zola hissed.
Yani held up her hand to silence Zola.
Twyla, Anika and Dawnette wandered back in.
"What's going on?" Twyla asked, quickly sizing up the tension.
"Twyla, would you mind taking my sister's back to our party? I need to talk to Lady Ime in private," Yani said.
Twyla took the hint and gathered up the younger women toward the exit. Zola and Ilana followed behind to block anyone else from entering. Yani leaned her left arm over her right on the armrest and crossed her legs.
"I will be queen soon, so any dreams or aspirations you bad minded bitches had about N'Jadaka are over fuh good. I'll fuck up anyone who tries tuh come for we…even Remy."
Ime huffed and jumped to her feet. Yani's chest burned. She took her time standing up like a powerful royal woman with the highest status in the land shared with her man.
"This hatred yuh have in your heart…keep it or throw it away. I don't care. You mean nothing to me. However, we both have a duty to our country—"
"You are not a real Wakandan, Yani Galiber. You are a fake. A blight on the bloodline. You think your position is safe just because you will marry him tomorrow? Hmmph. Then you don't truly know the history of Udaku men. They have an appetite…a lust for life that you could never satisfy as an outsider. No Wakandan man in his right mind would see you as any kind of prize."
"Well, your man has a taste for me, so I can't be all that bad."
Ime's eyes narrowed and her right hand went up high to strike Yani.
"Ime stop!"
Remy's voice rattled them both. He grabbed Ime's arm and pulled her away before her hand connected with Yani's face.
"My apologies Princess Yani. She has disrespected you and I am…embarrassed by this."
Ime snatched her arm away. Her cold eyes had gone beyond jealous hatred. There was envious murder lodged in them too. Yani took a step back sensing an uncontrollable rage flowing through her nemesis. Remy struggled to get Ime's hand back down to her side. She stuck a finger in Yani's direction.
"You aren't special. He will get bored with you…you are nothing like us…"
Ime vomited hatred with her words, and Yani stood strong with a half smile on her face, allowing the woman to get everything off of her chest right then and there. Had Yani worn her finger armor that night, there would've been deep bloody holes in Ime's face. She kept a rigid posture despite her blood pressure going up. A physical entanglement would only fuel the fire of other nobles who felt the same as Ime. Her throat tightened and she parceled her words carefully. Yani's mind screamed to revoke Ime's wedding invitation, but she wanted the woman to watch her nuptials and squirm about it. Diplomacy and tact were the order of the evening.
"Lady Ime, I appreciate your honesty. You have never minced your words, so I will not run around the bush with mine. King N'Jadaka and I are one blade."
Ime's eyes narrowed hearing the euphemism. Remy watched Yani's face with an apprehensive expression. Had it been a club in St. Thomas back when she kept a reckless mouth, Yani would not hesitate to let all of the noble women know she was a good pussy gyal. They way N'Jadaka carried on in her pum pum was all the evidence she needed. The elites could come for Yani all they wanted, but that bad man from the hill wasn't going anywhere.
She took a step forward and Remy repositioned his left foot in front of the tips of her shoes to create a barrior between the two women. Biting back the rancor in her throat and the urge to call Ime a heavy-tongued cow foot whore, she opted to act her position.
"Your campaign to vilify me or make me feel less worthy of the throne has failed. You can't have N'Jadaka, so you go for Remy. The way I hear it, you backstabbed your best friend to get him…so if I were you Ime, I would worry about repairing my social reputation instead of coming for a queen. Good luck with this one, Remy. It's a pity that your family settled for this waste gyal as your future wife—"
Ime lunged for Yani. Remy became a shield. He hugged Yani and protected her body from Ime's attack. Ilana and Zola rushed over and yanked Ime into a corner, pushing her back against a wall mirror. They shoved her shoulders and cursed in her face to keep her from going up against Yani again.
"Please forgive her…I'm sorry for everything," Remy pleaded.
He held Yani's shoulders and she could feel his warm breath blow across her lips. From the reflection in the mirror behind him, Yani noticed N'Jadaka walking in with Twyla. Remy's hands dropped away from her body quickly, but N'Jadaka saw it all. Ilana rushed to the king's side and whispered something to him before he reached their side of the powder room. He moved like a stalking cat toward Ime afterward, ignoring Remy and Yani completely. Zola stepped to the side giving N'Jadaka space. Ime cowered before the man she desired above all others.
Everyone remained silent. N'Jadaka's smoldering presence held them all in a chokehold. Ime trembled.
"Look at me," N'Jadaka commanded.
Ime turned her head to the side and refused to do so. N'Jadaka crowded her body and Yani knew exactly how that felt up close. The heat. The crackling energy. The sexual prowess. It was too much to process all at once, and for a mere second, Yani pitied Ime. Her greatest desire was right in front of her and she couldn't even look at him.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"King N'Jadaka, I beg…let me remove her from your presence. She has been drinking—"
"Do you have permission to speak to me?"
N'Jadaka didn't bother to look at Remy. His voice boomed and the message was received.
Stand down.
Ime lifted her head. Watery eyes peered at the king.
"I don't normally get into women's business, but I warned you once about bothering her, so now I will give you a choice. Get on your knees in front of her and beg forgiveness for your insolence or I will strip you from your title and make life hell for your entire family."
Ime jammed her back against the mirror with horror dripping from her eyes.
"She accosted me…I was minding my own business with friends," Ime whined.
"Ime…just do it. Stop making this worse for yourself. If you have no title, we cannot marry," Remy said.
The tears fell then. Ime wiped at her eyes as if her own body betrayed her. Yani slipped her hand around N'Jadaka's.
"Let it be. She's drunk and we know how powerful the drinks have been tonight. We need to leave for rest. Our wedding will be here soon, king," Yani said.
Mercy.
That is what Yani gave Ime. Although it would've been a sight to see Ime groveling at her feet, Yani wanted to be above the woman in the best way. Knowing N'Jadaka showed his trump card, she doubted Ime would get out of line ever again. The threat of losing a title was worse than going to hell in Wakanda.
The king allowed Yani to lead him away from Ime, and Remy rushed to her side, throwing an arm around his fiancé's waist. He guided her quivering form away from certain banishment. Twyla wandered over.
"Gossip has already spread outside. When you walk out of here, look cheerful like nothing happened," Twyla said.
Strolling hand-in-hand with Twyla cracking a joke, they left the powder room laughing. Their performance was good enough to get them past a few people, but it was clear the mood had shifted in the banquet room toward her. The upper class were shook to their core. No one was safe if the king jumped for Yani like that in public.
Yani gathered up her children with Leona and Dante's help, and they all bid farewell to the hosts and their dinner companions from the center table. Couples were still dancing and liquor still flowed and would do so into the night. Nobles from all the tribes rushed up to Yani and wished her a good evening, hoping that she graced them with her sweet voice and a smile. N'Jadaka shook hands and accepted congratulations for their upcoming nuptials once more. She waved at her favorite people throughout the banquet room while Zola and Ilana stayed close with her sisters in tow.
N'Jadaka held Yani's and Joba's hand until they were outside the venue boarding a different vehicle with the children by themselves. Yani turned on the sound-proof barrier for the back seat where Joba, Riki, and Sydette sat comfortably, their eyes drowsy from all the activity of the day. They spoke freely without their driver and guard hearing.
"I'm glad you didn't fight her physically," N'Jadaka said.
"Me too. It wouldn't be a good look for us, no matter how much she deserved to get boxed. She knows where I stand. That's the important thing when dealing with a yamhead gyal."
"Remy has a problem on his hands."
"You do too."
"How's that?"
Yani leaned into him and held onto his arm.
"According to her, you were supposed to be her betrothed if I hadn't showed up in Wakanda. Remy was her back up consolation prize."
The corners of his lips went down and his brows joined in the center.
"This caste culture is very particular, very selective of whom they pair couples. The more I learn, the more I see how dangerous it was for my father to choose my mother. Sometimes I think she would've received the same treatment."
"They aren't nice about my foreignness at all in Ime's cliques. She even insinuated that Ilana and Zola only came to me to get close to you."
"We know there are advantages being around me. But those two…," He gave a casual glance to to Yani, "Their hearts are in the right place. They adore you. I know they have crushes on me, but those are just harmless feelings. Most times I have to bargain with them just to get you to myself all alone."
Yani grinned and stroked a finger up and down his chest.
"Are you still going to your bachelor party tonight?" she asked.
"It's not a party. A little get together with the fellas."
"Where will you guys go?"
"We're staying in the palace. I have some food and drinks prepared up in the salon. We'll play cards, smoke cigars…catch up with my cousins. Nothing crazy."
"Strippers?"
Yani giggled and N'Jadaka put an arm around her pulling her into his side. Her breasts mashed into his chest.
"I've seen enough naked women in my life to last me. Every color, size, and from damn near every continent. I'd get bored watching some stranger shake ass for mere entertainment with a bunch of men. Smoking, drinking and shooting the shit is all I want to do. Besides…I have the baddest woman on the planet and I'll get my own private show after we get married."
She puckered her lips and he lowered his head to brush his mouth against hers.
They arrived in the palace parking structure at a reasonable hour. N'Jadaka carried Joba and Riki, while Yani carried Sydette in her arms. Back at their home, Kora helped guide the children away from the front door in their sleepy daze toward the stairs.
"I guess we have to say goodnight here," Yani said.
She wrapped her arms around N'Jadaka's waist and he held her close.
"Yep. I say goodbye to Princess Yani forever. I'll miss her."
They locked eyes, basking in the moment together.
"Thank you for never giving up on me…even when you thought I was gone forever. Thank you for making sure our children knew about me. Thank you for being the light that brought me back to myself…the light that showed me that I could find a perfect love in paradise. You have made this imperfect man so very happy."
"Thank you for coming into my life…thank you for believing in me and making sure I was taken care of even when you thought death was a possibility for yourself. Thank you for being the love of my life…choosing our precious Sydette as your own and giving me my beautiful son. Thank you for trusting me to raise a special extra daughter too. You have made this equally imperfect woman very happy too."
"Well shit, we might as well be married now. Sounded like we said some vows," he joked.
"I know. I'm actually happy that we don't have to say a lot tomorrow. I already feel like crying…"
"Aye girl…no tears…"
Yani buried her face in his chest and wept out her happiness. He rubbed her back with loving hands and cooed in her ear soft words of love.
"You are my life, baby."
He pulled away and kissed her forehead.
"Go on now, get some beauty rest. We all get to sleep in until twelve thirty. I shouldn't even be looking at you right now. We're supposed to stay separated," he said.
She held his hands, not wanting to let him go, not wanting to part from his warmth and strength. Staring into his eyes, she luxuriated in the overpowering essence of his presence the way Ime had experienced him up close. Yani still thrilled to his energy and aura. She pulled him in for a kiss…a long one. Their heads moved from side to side and his hands palmed her backside, squeezing the heavy orbs. His tongue explored and made promises for their wedding night. He kissed her woozy and she stepped back on weak legs. Her brain felt mushy and her body tingled all over. Especially down below.
"I should go now," he said.
"Okay."
Neither one of them left the front door.
"I have to change clothes for my bachelor party," he said.
"Hmmm."
His dimples and septum ring mesmerized her. The glint of his gold panther teeth held her captive when his lips parted in a gentle smile. The king's body heat wrapped her in a cocoon of love. His too-muchness enveloped all of her senses and she suppressed the urge to look away from his face.
N'Jadaka's kimoyo beads lit up breaking the spell for Yani.
"It's Mpilo…I betta dip. Can't be late to my own gathering," he said.
Yani moved away from him knowing that if he touched her again, she would pull him into their home and up to her bed.
"Love you," he said.
She blew him a kiss and dashed inside the front door, closing it quickly. Resting her back against it, she touched her face. It was hot and a light sheen of nervous sweat covered the back of her neck. She touched her stomach to calm the butterflies there. Lord…he still made her swoon like it was their first time together.
"Are you alright, Princess Yani?"
Sindiswa, the evening attendant for their home approached Yani with concern.
"I'm fine. Can you please bring me some bria tea and chocolate biscuits to my bedroom?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Yani climbed the stairs thinking of love, family, and finally having her happy new beginning with N'Jadaka.
Sunrises in Wakanda were a stunning tapestry painted with the delicate hand of Bast.
N'Jadaka rose early before the streaks of orange, rose, pale turquoise, and magenta saturated the horizon heralding the golden return of the sun.
He bathed in a wide tub filled with oils and herbs to purify his body for marriage. The humble priest Dinani waited for him on the balcony where they prayed together in the language of Bast, the ancient tongue that supported him through his transformation on the holy mountain. Ogum stirred in his chest and quickly rose to the crown of his head where the energies of two gods merged.
The ancestors rested within him.
Dinani and N'Jadaka's former temple caretaker Ayiz'e smudged him head to toe fully nude with river sage and more prayer work. As the sun rose, he watched it golden the sky while listening to a recording of a berimbau being played by his mother and a drum pounded by his Grandpop. He prepared his mind for hours of ceremony and honed in on Ayiz'e warming up a thick glob of ceremonial body butter in her hands. The pale yellow substance melted into clear oil and she rubbed it all over him, even his locs. It smelled wonderful, like citrus and honey. She knelt down and rubbed it on his buttocks and the back of his thighs. Dinani observed the preparation making sure no spot on his body was missed. Ayiz'e started rubbing the oil on his groin and when she stroked his flaccid penis and scrotum with it, Dinani held up a tied leather bundle about seven inches long.
"Kumkani, before you consummate your union with the new queen, you must remember to give Bast an offering of your semen first. Princess Yani has been trained properly to do this with you. We would all be pleased if you conceived a new heir on this night," Dinani said.
Ayiz'e finished oiling his nutsack and the front of his legs and feet.
"He is heavy with seed. We can expect plenty of blessings in the king's future," she said.
Dinani smiled.
"This is good to hear. It has been a long time since the royal family has had a bounty of children. Bast will be pleased with our king. We shall take our leave now until we see you at the wedding temple," Dinani said.
They left the suite and an attendant brought his early morning breakfast. Pork medallions, porridge sweetened with sugared red berries, buttery biscuits and slices of fresh fruit. He ate his meal alone on the balcony, calming his mind and the wedding jitters. The eagerness to be married right away already overwhelmed him. He wished they could skip all the ceremonial work, but the new marriage had to follow ancient Udaku customs.
Belly full and mind straight, he relaxed in bed for a short respite until it was time to dress. His wedding robes were brought to him and his personal stylist helped him dress. Ayiz'e returned to twist his locs into an elaborate bun with a few strands left to fall on his shoulders. She checked the wedding clothing front to back. His black opal ceremonial robes were blacker than an inky sky at midnight, but as he moved, the robes refracted an array of colors in blue, green, and silvery gray hues that looked like tiny galaxies bursting light in deep dark space.
"He is ready," she said.
Once more, she smudged him with a different bundle of dried plants that smelled spicy and sharp in the nose. It fit his personality. He sniffed it as she passed around him.
"You recognize it?"
He shook his head.
"Bast Root. It is the plant that we used for ceremonies before vibranium fell from the sky. This plant cradled the vibranium meteor when it landed. Bast led King Bashenga to it, and soon after, a patch of it mutated into the heart-shaped herb that we cultivate today. This original plant links us to our past because the Panther Goddess led us into our future. Smudging with it calls Bast and her sisters down to be with you on this day."
"I understand," he said.
Ayiz'e left his side and he stared at himself in the mirror.
"You truly are a king."
N'Jadaka turned his head and Dante walked forward.
"Your parents are with you…they can see how handsome you look, JaJa."
"I feel them."
"They came to me in a dream last night. All I could do was tell them how excited I was to watch you marry Yani, and they looked pleased. I woke up before I could remember what they said, but I'm sure it was something like 'We love you, son.' Their faces were so shiny…so close to me that I could touch them."
Dante touched N'Jadaka's shoulder and admired his wedding garb.
"Are the guys ready?" N'Jadaka asked.
"Waiting for you at the carport. Yani and the children have already left for the temple."
He took a deep breath and checked his clothing again. Dante tapped his arm.
"Come…let's go get your wife," Dante said.
N'Jadaka walked with his grandfather out of the suite. Four Dora Milaje and six kingsguards awaited him outside. They rode a private elevator down to an underground carport where his groomsmen stood near their vehicle transports wearing custom obsidian Wakandan suits that complimented N'Jadaka's robes.
"Damn, I feel like royalty too," Walter said, showing off his outfit.
Tahir wore a custom suit that incorporated his cultural heritage into the design. Mpilo grinned from ear to ear in his own attire. Bibi shook N'Jadaka's hand and congratulated him on his day.
His older cousin, Junie paraded around in his suit.
"I think I ate too much last night," Junie said, patting his stomach.
"I think that fat has always been there," Bibi joked, poking Junie's round belly.
His cousin Nevaeh hugged him. She wore a long overcoat over her covered dress and would walk as his groomswoman carrying flowers to represent Marisol's missing presence. Yani's cousin Kendall was doing the same as a bridesman filling in the gap of missing family from the Galiber side. He would escort Nevaeh down the aisle.
"How are you feeling, JaJa?" Nevaeh asked.
"The nerves are kicking in a little bit, I'm not gonna lie," he said.
She kissed his cheek and wiped away the smudge of her lipstick.
"Are you ready to leave, kumkani?" a driver asked.
"Let's rock and roll," N'Jadaka said.
They split into three cars and N'Jadaka sat next to Dante.
The streets of Wakanda were jam packed with spectators who had lined up on every avenue and street corner waiting to catch sight of the royal family. Every inch of the city looked decorated and the festive energy of the citizens forced grins on all their faces in the cars. The wedding was the celebration the country needed after a tumultuous year adjusting to life removed from the Infinity War.
He watched people dance and throw flowers at the cars as they were whisked to the heart of the golden city where the temple waited. Traffic clogged up two blocks before they arrived at their destination, and they waited patiently for the kingsguards and the royal onyx squad to make way for their cars to get through.
They crossed through the gauntlet ten minutes late, but N'Jadaka didn't care about time. He stayed in the present moment, feeling all the feelings, letting the fervor of the crowd wash through him.
The ancient temple loomed in front of them. The last time they had been there was to reunite with his parents, but that sadness didn't linger over the ancient site. It beckoned to him with an ethereal beauty and gave him the gift of peace in his heart. His parents were there waiting to watch him wed. Their spirits hovered all around him.
Their vehicles were ushered into a covered parking structure on the west side of the temple entrance where his clan and extended family convened. Umama, Ramonda, and an army of other Udaku relatives stood waiting for him and his groomsmen.
"You look amazing Umama. You too, Ramonda," he said.
He hugged as many relatives as he could before a wedding director arrived and pulled him away from Soliel, Aujannue and Serah to give final instructions. Nevaeh's mother Rolita straightened the locs that tangled on his shoulders from all the hugging. The family drummers stood nearby waiting for their cue, and the family griot, his cousin Didah, walked in front of everyone carrying a centuries old staff that was carved with family sigils of protection. She touched the top of her forehead and took a deep breath before approaching N'Jadaka. He could feel the rising energy of his family behind him.
"Cousin N'Jadaka, the temple is packed. Your grandmother has permitted some people to stand in the back, so when we go in, please keep yourself in the center behind me at all times until we reach the front. The acting griot for the Galiber clan will come in right when the last of our family has been seated."
N'Jadaka nodded. He heard Didah's words, but his body sensed the anticipation inside the temple. Somewhere on the otherside of the structure, Yani was waiting for him. His heart thudded in his chest and his hands went clammy. Umama lifted his chin with her hand.
"Breathe, grandson…that's it. Relax and breathe."
Tunnel vision and anxiety ran through him. The overstimulation forced him to gulp in air. Serah clasped his hand and his Uncle Addae slipped next to him and gripped his elbow to steady him. N'Jadaka was about to ask for a chair to sit in, but a comforting warmth spilled down from the crown of his head and flowed to his feet. He closed his eyes. Her familiar scent came down on him the way it did when he used to cook in her kitchen when he was a little boy. Florida water.
Nana Jean.
"I'm glad you're here too," he whispered under his breath.
He knew his great-grandmother always stayed with him, but the scent of her protective potions surrounded him…grounded him. Standing tall, he shook his hands and prepared to swagger down the aisle so the world could see a king claiming his queen.
Didah gave him the biggest smile that rivaled the sun shining above them. She tilted her head back and burst into the first stanza of their family history and the drummers matched her strong voice as they pounded out the backing rythmn. His groomsmen and groomswoman were led away to join Yani's bridesmaids and bridesman to prepare for their entrance.
"I feel you all in me," N'Jadaka said out loud to his ancestors.
He held onto Dante's and Umama's hands and followed Didah out of the covered structure. The drummers controlled the pace of their trek around the temple and once they entered, N'Jadaka focused his eyes on Dinani the priest who waited for them at the front.
The temple overflowed with guests and their excited energy pushed against the king, adding an extra layer of sensory overload he tried to control. He was happy, so very happy, and every inch down the aisle heightened the experience. The piercing pride in Didah's voice carried him along as she sang out the story of the Udaku family leading the country for generations. Each time she named a queen or king, N'Jadaka felt their movement in his core as if they each tapped his soul to let him know they were walking beside him. He laughed out loud when Queen Shuriya's name was uttered. His greatest grandmother tickled the back of his neck and a vision of her clouded his eyes before the next name was called. His family gave a call and response with the drummers as they circled the temple allowing all the spectators to see the great King N'Jadaka in all his royal splendor. They made their way back up the aisle as his father's and mother's names were uttered. Umama let out a ululation that rippled through the family and N'Jadaka's knees almost buckled hearing the pain that was still in his grandmother's throat.
He closed his eyes when he felt a kiss from his mother on his temple and another kiss from his father on his forehead. He wiped his eyes and guided his elder relatives to their seats on a dais behind the priest. The rest of his family filled in the reserved seats in front of their guests.
N'Jadaka looked across the rows of guests and acknowledged the nearly nine hundred non-Udaku family members facing him. Sunlight filtered through the temple and illuminated the majestic indoor trees that created the canopy roof, their wide-sweeping branches intertwined with the solid pillars and Goddess statues making the atmosphere look surreal and holy. Didah and the drummers concluded their family song by highlighting N'Jadaka's bravery in protecting the people, and he danced entertaining the crowd. A few elderly Udaku aunts and uncles stood up and encouraged him to show out and he granted them a show. Umama and Dante hooted and hollered for him too. A bold drummer jumped in front of the king and pounded an extra rhythm for his feet and shoulders and he allowed his limbs to cut loose. The unseen Galiber clan called out his name loudly from the back announcing their entrance, and he ended his dancing by bowing to his grandparents. A riotous applause cascaded from the foreign guests in the audience.
Didah took her place behind him on the dais waiting for Yani's family griot to orate about her family.
The sound of clashing blades echoed from the far side of the temple. N'Jadaka waited with great anticipation. Kendall, and about fifteen of Yani's adult family members carried shiny cutlass blades and lit torches. They didn't use drums for a percussive sound, but sang acapella about Queen Mary, their history of enslavement and liberation using the acoustics of the ancient temple to echo the beauty of their combined voices. Leona walked among them lending her voice with her head held high wearing a strapless puffy champagne-colored gown decorated with tiny cutlass blades. Her salt and pepper hair was carefully decorated with Ginger Thomas flowers the official island flower from their home. Several young children and teenagers from their family followed along clapping to the beat and gazing at the wondrous beauty of the ancient temple.
Although Yani's family was small in number representing their clan in comparison to N'Jadaka's, they kept the guests spellbound listening to the story of their island roots and their connection to Africa through the diaspora. After singing the folk song of Queen Mary, Kendall took over the oral history and sang/rapped about their family. The other relatives stomped their feet and clapped their hands with percussive beats supporting his playful delivery of Caribbean history. The Galiber clan circled past N'Jadaka, and Kendall helped Leona join N'Jadaka's grandparents on the dais with four other elder cousins from her family. N'Jadaka moved over to them and gave them hugs and kisses before quickly taking his position back in front.
Kendall stood before Didah and the two of them had a playful back and forth of singing. Didah challenged Kendall to tell the world why Yani was the best woman for N'Jadaka and the young man waved his blade around and pointed the torch at the king. The fire was close enough to heat N'Jadaka's cheeks.
Didah held a long singing note and studied N'Jadaka's face.
"Is this woman for you, kumkani?" Didah asked.
"Bring her to me," he replied and the Udaki family laughed and clapped because he was supposed to simply say "Yes."
Didah's smile swelled his heart and she turned her attention back to Kendall.
"The king has spoken," Didah said.
Kendall grinned and attendants took away all the torches and cutlass weapons. The Wakandan drummers pounded away giving Kendall time to ceremonially return to the bride-to-be letting her know she was called forth. The sweet orchestral sounds of Wakandan strings, flutes, and violins mixed with the beautiful vocals of his paternal grand aunt serenading the strides of Twyla and Bibi. Twyla was already bawling as she clutched her husband's arm and the bouquet of flowers. Yani had all of her bridesmaids wear custom-made, iridescent mother-of-pearl dresses that each woman was allowed to choose in their personal style. Twyla's garment was a one shoulder wrap dress with a high slit on the left side. Her shoulder-length locs were also heavily decorated with island flowers. She clutched Bibi's arm tight while sniffling toward him. They stood on either side of N'Jadaka and he bent over and kissed Twyla's cheek, wiping her tears away.
"I'm sorry..I'm sorry…" Twyla whispered.
N'Jadaka laughed at her and she gathered herself together.
Zola and Ilana walked down with Tahir and Mpilo wearing elaborate crisscross halter neck gowns. The slits in their dresses were more modest, but their elaborate braided hair-dos showed flair and sassiness in their style. Mpilo looked terrified of messing up his walk down the aisle with Ilana, but he relaxed more when the king smiled at him. The heavenly music elevated the feelings in the temple and N'Jadaka touched his chest hoping it wouldn't explode before Yani appeared.
Anika and Dawnette made the long walk down the aisle with Walter and Shawn. Their dresses were a matching ruched style with sequins at the top and satiny overskirts that reminded N'Jadaka of mermaids. They crafted thick twists in their hair and wore their hair flowers tucked at their left temples like Billie Holiday.
Junie escorted Shuri who stunned everyone with her make-up and hair. She had fluffed out her hair into a perfectly coiffed 'fro where flowers were strategically placed to look like they grew from her scalp like a giant ebony bouquet. Her dress had a plunging neck with split sleeves that showed skin powdered with sparkly dust that twinkled like stars on her rich brown skin. As she passed the front row, she gave a nod to Nakia who held a sleeping Toussaint on her lap. Shuri gave a sly smirk to N'Jadaka knowing he was peeping all the extra make-up she never wore in her regular life. His young cousin looked stunning and his older cousin Junie looked proud to escort her in front of the Udaku clan.
Kendall strolled out with Nevaeh whose custom dress shared her Native heritage with Yurok detailing of abalone shells and stringed shell beads that dangled around her waist like a fancy apron that jingled as she walked. She wore a long braid threaded with flowers all the way to the small of her back. When she separated from Kenny she blew a kiss to N'Jadaka and showed him the extra bouquet of flowers she held for Marisol and Disa.
The music changed into a melody that transfixed the entire temple gathering. A young woman sang like an angel with a choral ensemble backing her up high above them. N'Jadaka lifted his gaze to a balcony above the temple entrance where the angelic voices rained down on them like holy blessings. He now understood why Umama insisted that the wedding take place in the late afternoon. The placement of the sun in the sky had its sunrays directed into the temple by the architecture where it created a natural spot light for his children coming down the aisle next.
The entire congregation stood up when Joba appeared, flower crowned with her thick wavy hair shiny with ringlet curls all down to her back. She held a basket of flowers and threw them in front of herself as she slowly walked in the procession. N'Jadaka heard the oohs and ahhs of their guests. The sun made Joba's skin a deep mahogany brown like her mother's and he beckoned for her to keep walking to him so he could hug her. Although her walk was out of order for an American custom, the Wakandans deemed it appropriate for the youngest child in the bridal party to herald the coming of the new wife with flowers and acceptance from the priest.
Joba reached the front and her eyes took in the ancient wisdom of Dinani who presided over the ceremony. Dinani gestured for Joba to come forward and the little girl paused, staring up at the expectant priest. Twyla waved for Joba to come to her side, but Dinani stepped forward and held Joba's hand. Something sacred transpired between the priest and his child. Dinani glanced at N'Jadaka and smiled. Whatever it was made the priest happy. N'Jadaka reached for Joba's hand and pulled her in front of him. He kissed the top of her head and the sweet show of affection made a few guests wave their hands in approval.
Sydette, his ring bearer, stepped lively carrying a satin pillow in her right hand that held the wedding rings. Her left hand kept a tight grip on a red satin binding rope that she would tie around her parent's wrists as part of the wedding ceremony.
His eldest child's hair carried buoyant curls that almost looked bigger than Shuri's 'fro with a braided Mohawk style. A few flowers were tucked into the intricate braiding pattern along her scalp accentuating the fullness of her curls, and her face glowed as she kept her eyes on her Baba watching her steps. Sunlight dappled across her hair and face as she drew closer to him. Her dress matched Joba's, silvery white and princess-styled to fit her age.
"Hey Sweet Pea," he said.
She fixed her lightly pink-glossed lips into a big smile for him showing big dimples like him, and took her place by his side next to Joba. He bent down and gave her a kiss on her nose and she giggled, patting his cheek with the hand carrying the marriage tie. She glanced at her sister and Joba giggled making Sydette giggle more.
"Wait until you see Mama," Sydette said to him.
N'Jadaka straightened right back up and waited for Yani to appear. Before she stepped into the temple, he heard her voice singing the words that were meant for him in that little St. Thomas club so long ago.
"Can't do without you for sure
Amount a place I and I explore
Still nuh find nobody else I adore
Them can't stop we, yeah
Yuh love a sumn wah mi have to protect
You are my balance and my ease to mi stress
Your vibration never fail me yet
Wull on pon me, yea…"*
N'Jadaka had been unaware that Yani was going to sing during their ceremony. Their rehearsal had been calculated from start to finish and at no time was he made aware of his bride serenading him. His ears caught the lead singer of the choral ensemble vocalizing the exact same English words into Wakandan, lending her vocals after Yani finished.
Like it had been in the past, he was mesmerized by Yani's voice before she even stepped into his sight.
Riki held his mother's hand and led her into the temple. His royal robes were an exact replica of his father's. His hair was fluffed out into the big sandy-red sunburst of his grandmother Califia. Yani wanted her son, the first child born to N'Jadaka, to give her away for the ceremony.
N'Jadaka's lips trembled as he watched the beaming face of his gorgeous bride walking toward him in all her glory. Yani's silvery-white dress sparkled in the light of the sun rays that struck the shimmery iridescence in all the right places. Form-fitting, a hood covered her head that fell back into a luxurious train, accentuating the roundness of her beautiful face and big tranquil eyes.
His heart stopped.
N'Jadaka gasped and Joba patted his wrist keeping his spirit from flying out of the room. He held out his hands, palms up, willing his radiant bride to come to him with all his might. Riki took his time setting Yani's pace. The boy wanted to show off his mother. The Wakandan choir sang over their bridal march with a hymnal that brought tears to N'Jadaka's eyes. Yani transported him.
He stood nude in warm liquid inside a Caribbean sea as a young mouthy woman fussed at him to get out of her waters. Surly eyes from the past challenged him to show his true self in a hectic kitchen on a compound until he clawed his way back to humanity and fell in love with his future queen. Yani beckoned him into the ocean of her love for all time. Was there no better proof of higher powers protecting him than that divine encounter with her?
Nothing prepared him fully to witness a vision coming toward him that made his whole body quake. He gasped for breath. Joba squeezed his hand.
"Its okay, Baba. Umi Yani is coming," Joba said.
Riki stopped halfway to the priest and puffed up his chest.
"Baba, come get Mama!" Riki shouted.
The congregation erupted into cacophonous laughter. Like his father, Riki eschewed tradition and said what needed to be said. Sydette pushed N'Jadaka forward and he took eager strides toward Yani. He was supposed to sing the royal wedding song that grooms shared with the bride, but he spoke them instead. The Wakandan words slowed down his steps and he approached Yani full-throated and proud:
"Come when the nights are bright with stars
Or when the moon is mellow;
Come when the sun his golden bars
Drops on the hay-field yellow.
Come in the twilight soft and gray,
Come in the night or come in the day,
Come, O love, whene'er you may,
And you are welcome, welcome.
You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,
You are soft as the nesting dove.
Come to my heart and bring it rest
As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.
Come when my heart is full of grief
Or when my heart is merry,
Come with the falling of the leaf
Or with the redd'ning cherry.
Come when the year's first blossom blows,
Come when the summer gleams and glows,
Come with the winter's drifting snows,
And you are welcome, welcome…"**
He smiled, happy that he was able to remember every word and say them with enough eloquence in flawless Wakandan. Pausing for a moment to look over her stunning appearance, he relished the sight they created standing in the center of the temple with the warmth of the sun caressing them.
"Will you walk with me Yani Galiber?" he asked.
Yani kept her eyes locked onto his face. She fought to keep any tears from welling up, but the shimmer on her lower lids lost the battle. He never wanted to see her cry, but he made an exception for that day. Riki nudged her hip with an impatient hand. She cradled her son's chin and spoke to him softly.
"Should we?" Yani asked Riki.
A saucy grin curled Riki's lips and he nodded enthustiastically.
"I will walk with you King N'Jadaka Udaku," she said.
"Say that one mo' 'gin," N'Jadaka teased, cupping a hand to his ear.
Yani laughed and obliged him, her voice as soft and magical as it had been the first time he heard it.
"I will walk with you forever King N'Jadaka Udaku…my Golden Jaguar."
"Aye!" he shouted while offering her his arm. She held onto him with a firm grip and he clasped Riki's hand, escorting them both to Dinani.
Yani held tight to Riki's hand while the adult bridesmaids and groomsmen walked into the temple stepping in time to the exalted music playing for them. Several women priests had smudged her and the children with aromatic plants and oils before they left the palace and once again, a young female priest circled Yani and the children with a gold incense burner trailing a spiraling cloud of purple smoke that clung to their wedding garments and hair. The sweet odor calmed her mind and settled the children who were ready to gallop through the temple to reach their father.
Sydette hugged her waist.
"You look beautiful Mama," Sydette said.
"Thank you Sweet Pea. You all look beautiful, too."
Yani touched Sydette's hair then caressed Joba's cheek.
"I wish they'd hurry up," Riki lamented, swinging Yani's hand.
"They have to take their time walking down the aisle, silly. Everything is being filmed for the country and it's a big deal. If they walked fast they'd miss all the pretty clothes and how good we all look," Sydette said.
Riki and Sydette spoke quietly and Yani honed in on Joba's silence. She had been chatty and playful earlier that morning when everyone rushed around bathing in sacred oils and herbs with the female priests overseeing their preparations. But once they'd eaten a full breakfast, dressed, and left the palace, she'd quieted down.
Yani knelt before her youngest child and clasped her hands.
"How are you feeling, Sunshine? Nervous?"
Joba nodded. Sydette wrapped big sister arms around her.
"You'll make Baba proud when you lead us out…okay? We practiced and practiced and you will make the path for Mama pretty. I will be right behind you," Sydette said.
Joba clutched her basket of flowers and nodded. She tilted her head to look at Yani.
"What if I drop the basket or walk too fast?" Joba said.
Relief spilled over Yani hearing her speak again.
"All you have to do is listen to the music. It's like the metronome in Umama's suite. The beat sets the pace. If you think you're walking too fast, check the music cues. You are going to be a wonderful flower girl."
Yani hugged her and Joba leaned into the embrace. She kissed Yani's cheek and all was well again.
"It's time Princess Joba."
The lead wedding director smiled at the little girl and held a hand out to guide her into position at the temple entrance. Riki ran forward and hugged Joba. He whispered something in her ear and his sister broke out into another bright smile.
"You got this," Riki said out loud.
The director glanced at Yani.
"Everyone is standing up…here we go," the director said.
Joba took a deep breath and marched in time to the harmonious music.
"I'm next! I'm next!" Sydette squealed, twirling in a circle holding the wedding rings and sacred red tie.
Sydette peeked around the wedding director.
"Oh Mama! Baba looks so handsome," Sydette said.
Yani's heart and stomach fluttered. The anticipation of seeing him engulfed all of her nerve endings. They all heard collective oohs and ahhs and a smattering of applause. She wondered what happened to make the congregation applaud. Luckily, she would be able to watch the entire ceremony at a later time. The ceremony was broadcast live and recorded from start to finish. Palace recorders filmed everything the moment they stepped foot outside the palace for candid shots to later be edited into a royal wedding documentary.
"Princess Sydette, you are next please."
The director held out a hand and waved it, summoning the girl. Sydette blew Yani a kiss and marched out like a diva.
"Here you go, Princess Yani."
Another wedding coordinator handed her a mic. Yani waited for her music cue to tap it on. The peaceful strumming of harps alerted her, and she sang out all that she felt to N'Jadaka. She wondered what his facial expression looked like hearing her voice singing that particular song. Riki squeezed her hand in support and for a moment, holding her son's hand and singing to his father brought back all the connections they had in St. Thomas. Emotion spilled through her voice as she conveyed to the king how much he meant to her.
As the voice of the Wakandan choral member sang the song in their language with a different musical arrangement that transformed into the Wakandan wedding march, Yani held tight to her bridal bouquet and let her son lead them into the temple.
Grateful to have her son's hand for support, Yani took in the hundreds of faces that watched her march toward her destiny. Her brain tried to connect with individual eyes upon her. That proved useless once she zeroed in on N'Jadaka waiting for her at the far end.
God…he was more than handsome.
She lost her footing for a second and Riki helped her find her steps again.
It all came down to this moment.
Yani drifted away into a time when she was a lost woman-child trying to make a way out of no way on a small island. How many nights had she prayed for a better life for herself and Sydette? Given up on herself? How many days had she cried and chastised herself for choosing love with Chez who treated her so poorly and abandoned Sweet Pea? Yani had felt so alone and lost to a pre-destined fate that befell too many young women with big hearts and limited resources or support. Thank God Auntie was there for her. Thank all the angels too that her auntie liked Killmonger so much that she didn't run interference keeping them apart. There were too many tangible things that should have prevented Yani from ever meeting the foreign mercenary.
But look at God.
Her eyes watered and she looked away to control her blurry vision. No tears fell and she was able to concentrate on her delicate steps to reach the king.
Riki halted their march and shouted for his father to get her. The audience laughed and Yani chuckled herself. His declaration was not a part of the ceremony. She lifted her bridal bouquet to her lips to hide her open-mouthed laughter when Riki sucked his teeth sounding like an annoyed Auntie back home.
Her laughter fell away once N'Jadaka came down the aisle to claim her at his son's demand. She heard a few gasps from women around her who also felt that energy coming toward her. He spoke forceful words of love instead of singing them to her. The switch up made the evocative words more powerful and she felt every utterance in her bones, marrow deep. When he finally reached her, she could barely see his face. Her eyes had become a river threatening to spill down her face.
"Will you walk with me Yani Galiber?" N'Jadaka asked.
His voice was full of pride and so much love for her. The scent of oils on his skin and the smudging on his clothes smelled heavenly. She lost the ability to speak taking all of his spirit in. Riki balled up a small fist and pressed it into her hip. Yani lifted his chin and stared into Riki's shiny eyes.
"Should we?" Yani asked her son.
Those little Udaku lips on his face swept up into a knowing smile and Riki nodded like she was foolish to even ask the question. She looked at her great love again.
"I will walk with you King N'Jadaka Udaku," she said.
"Say that one mo' 'gin!"
N'Jadaka had cupped his ear and she knew in her soul he did that purely to show off for the nobles who questioned her place in his life.
"I will walk with you forever King N'Jadaka Udaku…my Golden Jaguar."
"Aye!"
Yani gripped his arm and he held Riki's hand, escorting them all to the priest waiting for them. Her bridesmaids and bridesgroom were in various stages of watery eyes, crying, and beaming love to her. She handed her bouquet to Twyla and her cousin gushed over her with a weepy voice.
Facing N'Jadaka, Yani watched the priest give Sydette instructions. She handed the wedding rings to her brother and a footstool was placed in front of her so she could easily bind her mother and father together. Dinani spoke ancient words as Sydette tied the satin binding rope around N'Jadaka's wrist first. She left about two feet of rope in between them before she tied the other end on Yani's wrist. Her task complete, Sweet Pea kissed both their wrists and returned to stand next to Joba.
Yani listened to the Wakandan words spoken by the priest, but her eyes stayed on N'Jadaka's face the entire time. His soulful eyes drank in every inch of her. It seemed like they were the only two there, but with the guests, plus the entire Udaku clan in attendance, over one thousand people witnessed their union and she blotted them all out.
Dinani spoke of their expected duties toward one another. Her ears glossed over all of those expectations and only tuned back in when the long ceremony moved into the portion where she was told the qualities of a virtuous queen.
Holy scripture was read by Ayiz'e who wore the sacred red robes of the mountain temple of Bast. A male priest presented Dinani with more sacred oils and they anointed Yani and N'Jadaka. The qualities of a virtuous king were recited to N'Jadaka. An older female priest blessed their children who stood there, and also blessed the children they would have in the future.
Umama stepped forward from her place on the dais holding Yani's queen isicholo. Dinani prayed over the crown and anointed it with holy Bast oils before N'Jadaka pulled back the hood on Yani's wedding dress revealing her platinum hair. Umama's voice was loud and strong.
"We of the Udaku clan accept Yani Galiber into this holy union. She is our welcomed daughter…our new queen…Queen Yani N'Isiqithi the First."
The women of the entire Udaku clan broke out into heartfelt ululations that echoed throughout the temple. Yani bowed her head slightly and Umama placed the queen's isicholo on her head.
"Stay blessed Queen Yani, may your reign make us all proud and may your greatest grandmother Queen Mary guide your hand in all that you do," Umama said.
Yani stood still and accepted the ululations, the shouts, the applause, the jealousy, the envy, the hatred, the admiration, the love, the curiosity, and the fear her queendom brought to Wakanda. She straightened her posture and let the weight of the crown sink into soul.
Queen Yani.
Heavy was the head that wore the crown, but not so much with N'Jadaka by her side. He held her hand up and they turned around to face the congregation. Dinani raised their arms and spoke with a firm tone in their voice.
"May I present to you all here, the royal heads of the nation, King N'Jadaka and Queen Yani Udaku, avatars of the Golden Jaguar…children of the Black Pather Tribe."
Everyone in the temple stood, including the relatives on the dais. The Council of Elders came forth from the audience and circled Yani and N'Jadaka. They held hands and recited an oath promising them both wise council in the days ahead. Stepping aside afterward, Yani and her new husband were able to acknowledge the crowd amidst their applause.
"You may now kiss your bride, kumkani," Dinani said.
N'Jadaka's lips were on hers before the priest finished giving permission, almost knocking her crown off. He kissed her within an inch of her life and backed away when she almost went limp.
"Hey queen," he said.
"Hey king," she answered.
Yani checked on their children and all three had glossy eyes admiring her new isicholo. N'Jadaka threaded his fingers with hers and boldly showed her off. To close the ceremony, they had to circle the inside of the temple as newlyweds counterclockwise. The isicholo settled nicely on her head, and Yani willfully entered her new era as ruler. She relaxed into N'Jadaka's strides and pranced about, letting her beauty and new status burn her enemies down to charcoal.
N'Jadaka kept stopping to kiss her hand and the red satin binding tie dangled between them letting everyone know they would never part. She reveled in the power, soaked it up and let it propel her around the temple with a fierce protective energy.
Back at the front again, N'Jadaka kissed her chasrely, with pecks to her lips and both cheeks. She bent down to hug and kiss their children just as the closing wedding march started. Dinani gave their final blessing and the Udaku family drummers showed out again, leading the march out of the temple. Didah sang a new griot song prophesying the reign of Yani and N'Jadaka.
"Ready to face the rest of the world?" N'Jadaka asked.
"I am," Yani said.
They held hands tight and strolled down the aisle together, exiting the ancient temple as husband and wife.
Chapter 6 HERE.
* Lyrics to Jada Kingdom's "Wull On"
** Poem by Black American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906), "An Invitation to Love"
Hey y’all! Here’s a random, little one-shot loosely based on this meme I saw a while back. Everytime I listen to Fantasia, it’s all I can think about lol.
Pairing: Erik ‘Killmonger’ Stevens x Black, Dark-Skin, Plus Size Reader. (Always💛)
Summary: No amount of 2K or Anime is a match for you when you’re on your bullshit.
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: Cussing. Use of N-word. Corny jokes. Reader being a major brat. Mention of smut. Erik being...a nigga lmao.
A/N: Song is “Free Yourself” by Fantasia, just in case someone doesn’t know it.
Also, I love me some Tasia so any shade towards her singing is all in jest. 😉
——
“IF YOU DON’T WANT ME, THEN DON’T TALK TO MEEE...”
Erik paused the TV and placed his elbows on his knees. His right leg bounced up and down aggressively. Sighing loudly, he threw down his PS4 controller and laid all the way back on the bed. You’d been blasting that same song for the last 20 minutes. Erik tried to tune it out but between Fantasia’s loud ass crooning and your off-key screeching, he couldn’t take it. He let out another breath as you continued to scream out ad-libs about how ain’t shit he was.
Let you tell it, this moment of supreme pettiness is what Erik deserved. You had come home late from work, tired and worn out from being around d’wights all day. All you wanted to do was curl up with your boyfriend and watch Love & Basketball. But Erik was in the middle of a game of NBA 2K19 and didn’t want to stop for your impromptu movie night.
EARLIER...
“What you mean not right now?” You asked with an attitude. You had changed out of your work clothes and into a black crop top t-shirt and black fitted shorts. Your big, kinky hair was pulled into a high puff.
“Baby, I’m trying to finish this game. We can watch the movie afterwards. Aight?”
“But I want to watch it now.”
“Well, I’m busy right now. Just watch it without me, if you can’t wait.”
“But we always watch Love & Basketball together, you whined as you poked your bottom lip out. “You don’t wanna hang out with me?”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
You sauntered over to him and sat on his lap, straddling his legs. You wrapped your arms around his neck and gently played with the tail of his black du-rag.
“Then why not now?” You cooed into his ear.
Erik groaned lightly as you ran your nails against the back of his neck. “Look, I’ll only be like an hour. I’m sure you can find a way to entertain yourself until I’m done.”
You squinted your eyes at him. Usually, you had Erik wrapped around your finger. Your whine alone would have him rubbing on your booty all night. And a whole lot more. But this time, he wasn’t letting up. Your pout quickly turned into a frown. You hopped out of his lap and stood in front of the TV.
“So this dumb ass game is more important than me?”
“Y/N.“
“Nah, that’s basically what your saying. You rather play this shit than be with me. I can read between the lines, Erik.”
“Girl, you trippin’ right now. Chill out.”
“Fuck chill! All the times I’ve sat up and watched those stupid ass anime shows with you?
“Stupid?” He stood up, cocking his neck back in offense. His gray sweats hung low on his hips. “I thought you said you were starting to like anime.”
“I don’t even understand that shit! I watch it because its something you like to do. But, do you return the favor? Nooo. You rather sit in front of this fucking TV and play some wack ass game made for 14 year olds! Witcho cornball ass!”
Erik’s eyes bulged. He clenched his jaw and moved towards you.
“Watch ya mouth, princess. I don’t know who you think you talking to but I’m not sum nigga in the street. You need—“
“I need to what, Erik?” You cut him off, placing your hands on you hips and moving closer to him. His large frame towered over yours but you still managed to look him right in the eye.
“You know, maybe I should get me one of those other niggas. I’m sure they would love to do much more than watch a movie with me.”
Erik’s eye twitched. You knew the thought of you entertaining some one else would get under his skin.
“You better calm all that down before we have a fucking problem,” he lowered his face to yours. “I mean that shit.”
“Then turn the game off,” you whined again, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Hell no.” Erik mirrored your actions. Normally, he’d let you have your way by now, but you were being more of a brat than usually. Plus, you had disrespected his favorite genre and game. No fucks were given on his end at this point.
The two of you glared at each other for a minute.
Erik huffed and rolled his eyes, “I’m not finna do this with your bratty ass. Take that bullshit somewhere else, bruh.”
He sat down on the bed and grabbed his controller, starting his game back up.
You stood there, burning a hole in the side of his head as he continued to play like you weren’t in the room.
“Ok,” you hissed, “OH-Kay.”
You stomped out, slamming the bedroom door on purpose.
—
Erik heard the song start over again.
“If your unhappy then your free to go onnn. Cause I don’t want you stayin’ arounndd, if I make you so miseraablee,” you and Fantasia sang brashly.
“IF YOU DON’T WANT ME THEN DON’T TALK TO MEE,”
“That’s FUCKING it.” He said as he shot up from the bed.
He swung open the bedroom door and stomped down the hall.
“I swear to GOD...” he murmured to himself as he made his way to the living room.
You were sprawled out on the couch, one leg thrown over the back while you leaned your head on the arm and sang. An open bottle of wine and half filled wine glass sat on the coffee table. You eyes drifted to Erik as he barged into the room. He was silently fuming; his naked, scarred chest heaving in and out. You gave him a dry look and grabbed your glass, taking a long sip.
“This love thing is fuull of scandaaaals, so you’re WELCOME TO WAALK.”
“Yo. Kill all this fucking noise, ma.” Erik said, pulling on his sweats.
You gave a him a stank once over, rolled your eyes, and kept singing.
“If you don’t WANT me, then dont TALK to me.”
“I’m serious, Y/N. You being mad childish right now.”
You turned the volume up on your speaker.
“Then GO ahead AND free yourSEELF.”
Erik clenched his jaw, “All this over a damn movie?”
You glared at him and walked towards the kitchen. He was right behind you, huffing and puffing the whole way. You opened the pantry and grabbed a big bag of kettle popcorn. You strolled over to the kitchen island and sat down on one of the stools.
“Look, stop all this and I’ll watch the stupid movie with you.”
“Time and time again, I tried it over and over,” you sang between bites. “But the love I had inside, has died.”
“Come on now, this shit is ridiculous,” he moved to your side of the island and sat down, trying to grab at you. You pulled back and perched yourself up on your knees to sit over him.
“Go. Ahead. To. Someone. Else.” You chanted, tapping your index finger into his forehead with every word.
Erik grabbed your wrist, getting more agitated with you, “I’m warning you, Y/N. You better stop.”
You kissed your teeth and snatched your hand back. With all the dramatic energy you could muster, you threw your head back and your arms out, bellowing out with the screaming songstress.
“IF YOOUU DON’T WAANNT MEEE THEN DON’T TAALK TO MEEE. GOOO AHEAAD AND FREEEE YOURSEEELFFF!”
Erik winced at your screaching. You threw your hand up at him and shook your head side to side.
“I had to take it there, I had take it there. Cause I’m TIRED.“
He flared his nostrils at you. That right leg started bouncing again.
“IF YOU DON’T WANT ME, THEN DON’T TAALK TO M—.”
“Goddamnit, Y/N!” Erik yelled. He quickly scooped you up and walked you over to the couch. You yelped as he plopped both your bodies down and leaned over you, a scowl on his face.
You blinked up at him innocently. His eyes scanned over your chubby, brown face. He sighed, still sneering a little.
“Why do I even put up with your ass?”
Fantasia continued to croon in the background as you stared back at him, batting your eyelashes.
“Cause you love me...” You said with a shy smile.
Erik let out a soft chuckle and dropped his head. He was lowkey happy to hear you say something besides those damn song lyrics. Reaching around you, he turned the speaker off.
He shifted both of your bodies sideways and laid behind you. He snuggled his head in your neck, causing you to whimper a little.
“Cue the damn movie,” Erik said, wrapping an arm around your waist.
You giggled, grabbing the remote off the table and turning on the TV. The opening scene of Love & Basketball faded onto the screen. You moved your head to face his and smiled, running your nails through his beard.
“You are something the fuck else, I swear.” He mumbled as he peppered kisses up your neck and along your face. He captured your lips into a full kiss as he pressed himself against your backside. “Spoiled ass.”
“E...” you moaned, pushing back against him.
Erik pulled back and sent a hard smack to your ass, causing you to squeal.
“I’ma watch this shit with you now but I got something for that ass later on,” he said with a smirk while he rubbed the sting away. “You ain’t really start singing yet.”
“The neighbors gon learn my name today or whatever Trey Songz said.”
——
Alright, I hope y’all got a good little chuckle out of this.
- She’s underage and we’re not disgusting pedos so let’s keep this civil
- Probably a Virgo.
- Busy as all hell. Always.
- You always have a hard time believing that you’re really out here dating the smartest and cutest person in this Milky Way
- communicates only in the form of meme-sending
- “I sent T’Challa a meme and what does he do? Leave me on READ! He doesn’t even send one back! Memes are like thank-you cards! You get one, you send one! That’s meme etiquette! I am surrounded by SAVAGES!”
- Will read your messages from the preview bar and forget to answer.
-You’re clearly not Wakandan so she’s always excited to learn more about your country and cultures/traditions
- crawls into bed at 2 a.m after finishing a new invention and cuddles you
- big spoon because she’s tall
- “babe I’m too tired for star gazing so can we just lie down and do some meme-gazing instead? It’s way more romantic”
-Will drag you to disneyland every weekend tho
- doesn’t reply to “how are you”s and “what are you doing”s but sends five memes in a row through DMs.
- “But Shuri! I wanna watch the Titanic toda-”
*is already opening the ’best april vine compilation 2018’ tab*
- You once wore open toed sandles to her lab.
- She was NOT amused
-YOUR NAKED TOES!!! MY LAB!!! THE CONTAMINATION!!! HORROR!!!”
- Is actually the kindest and the best princess
- but the biggest spoiled brat when she’s around you.
- Constantly demanding cuddles and attention while she has one eye on the latest memes
- Will make you twenty million gadgets to keep you safe “just in case”
- A bracelet that detects a person, calculates their movements, personal and criminal history, and maces them before they even have a chance to make a move MAY or may not be one of them
-BTW, Okoye’s always keeping an eye on you. You can’t tell if it’s because Shuri asked her to keep you safe or because T’Challa asked her to make sure you’re safe for Shuri
You’re too scared to ask tho and you can’t even hold an eye contact everytime okobae okoye looks your way
-Shuri’s EXTRA and you love her for it
-She’s also always making vine references
- T’Challa adores you too
- “I came here to talk to my sister but i see she is occupied with far more interesting things”
- Shuri blushing-glaring everytime T’Challa tries to tease you both.
- On the other hand, T’Challa nearly having a heart attack when he saw y’all making out.
- “Shuri, I ha- WHA-HAFSHIJKADSKH-I”
- “BROTHER! THE DOOR IS FOR KNOCKING!!!”
- “BUT-I-SADHADHJDAHK-”
- Shuri assuring you that he would not have the dora milaje execute you as soon as you walk out the door.
“Black Boys Bloom Thorns First: Volume 4, Chapter 57″
Need to catch up? Masterlist HERE.
"Listen as your day unfolds
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky
Lovers, they may cause you tears
Go ahead, release your fears
Stand up and be counted
Don't be ashamed to cry
You gotta be
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, you gotta be wiser
You gotta be hard, you gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, you gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day"
Des'ree – "Ya Gotta Be"
"Damn him!"
Disa tossed her comm tab stylus pen across her office and it struck the Phase Two model she built for the new man-made island she was to design. Her building team meeting had been going well until Adebiyi of the Jabari mountains criticized her roofing drafts. She had gone out of her way to request a skilled builder from the estranged tribe as a sign of goodwill to stave off criticism from other Wakandan design firms who lost the bidding war to create the new expansion of Wakanda onto the sea.
For hundreds of years, the Wakandans had protected their oceanfront by keeping it well-guarded and staying away from constant usage to keep other bordering nations from seeing what they had. Wakandan fishermen from the Border Tribe played their role as humble citizens, eking out a living on small boats. Luckily, the geography of their mountain range and their camouflage technology made the land on the beach untouchable for outsiders. Disa thought for months upon her arrival in the country that Wakanda was landlocked and was surprised to see the ocean for the first time with Yani and the children to honor Erik's birthday before they knew he was alive. They had a little birthday party for Sydette and she glimpsed the first man-made island territory when they did a flyover so the children could see what belonged to their new home and where Erik and N'Jobu's staunch supporters inhabited. There was also a quick trip to see the work ships on standby where the second island expansion would be built under her guidance. How the Wakandans lived cloaked in plain sight was astounding.
Five other design firms competed to build the new expansion, already miffed that they gave her the international embassy contract. Disa one-upped them all by asking for a Jabari team member to offset claims of her not understanding traditional structures. Who better to know Wakandan tradition than the Jabari people who left the nation because the others refused to hold on to it?
Adebiyi was sent to her, and at first, he was a quiet observer who listened to her ideas and inspected her early sketch designs. Then he began showing his ass, complaining about the materials she wanted to use and putting down her desire to have Wakandans involved with the design process. He was an artisan, and she fell in love with the work he had done in the Jabari lands. His middle-aged crotchety attitude polluted her office, and she regretted choosing him for her team. He was xenophobic, smug, and disparaging of her foreign ways. She kept her professional cool and refused to let him get under her skin where he could see how much he irked her. Disa was grateful when Yani showed up, freeing her for a few minutes from the Jabari tyrant. He was going to be a thorn in her side until Phase Two was completed. Kembintu, Atta, and T'Mbeze, her three other team members, rolled their eyes and gave subtle sighs whenever their gatherings turned into shouting matches. Disa made a note to ask T'Challa to come check the man and put the others on notice at the next family meal.
She whisked herself into the front office, and Yani looked frightened. Her normally warm brown skin looked unhealthy, and Disa immediately wanted to comfort her. With all the things they had been through, she still looked at Yani as a younger sibling. The fact that the woman came to her before anyone else with her fears showed Disa that she was trusted and her opinions on things still mattered to Yani.
After they spoke, Disa returned to her office and found it difficult to concentrate on her work. Even Adebiyi's spiel on some unimportant matter failed to get a rise in her. The man grumbled about her under his breath and the other team members ignored him while they planned a field trip out on the sea to supervise the installation of the island foundation. She pulled it together to finish a long day and practically ran to her suite to gulp down a glass of plum liquor.
A long bubble bath brought her back to life. She dressed in a lovely pink dinner dress and pinned her hair up for a sophisticated look. Disa enjoyed dinners with the entire family. It had become a rare event after the mourning period and she looked forward to seeing everyone, especially Riki and Sydette. Strolling through the palace on her way to the dining room, she met up with Umama and Baba Z. They were dressed in matching saffron robes, a sign that they would travel back to the Jabari mountains to wait for Erik's return. Umama rubbed Disa's arm with affection as Dante arrived with Joba carrying flowers from her fairy garden. Her daughter presented the bouquet to her great-grandparents and received kisses and a big hug from both Umama and Baba Z.
Attendants opened the dining room doors, and Yani arrived with Riki and Sydette. Joba squealed and ran to her brother first before Sydette picked her up and swung her around once. More hugs and kisses were given. Disa studied Yani's face. It still looked distraught.
Taking their places around the table, T'Challa, Shuri, and Ramonda soon joined them. The evening meal was filled with lots of vegetarian dishes, a hearty potato soup, and chickpea samosas. Yani glanced at Disa, cleared her throat, and brought everyone's attention to her when it was time for dessert.
"Will Erik have to fight again when he takes the throne?" Yani asked.
T'Challa didn't break eye contact with her, but Shuri glanced over at Ramonda and her grandparents. The silence around the table answered the question in the affirmative.
"He will face other tribes who have the right to challenge him," T'Challa said.
"You would have him risk his life again after all he's been through?" Disa asked.
"It is a tradition. We cannot take power until we give others a fair opportunity to rule," Baba Z said.
"Sydette… Riki… Joba… take your dessert out onto the patio with Hlano," Ramonda said.
The dining room attendant ushered the children with their small bowls of coconut and sweet potato pudding.
"What if he's killed? What will happen?" Yani said.
"He will not die," T'Challa said.
"But what if he does?" Disa asked, hating the sound of the words on her tongue.
T'Challa wiped his lips with a linen napkin and sighed.
"Riki or Joba would be chosen as his successor and I would become a regent until they came of age to take over ruling," T'Challa said.
"No one has ever beaten an Udaku… except for another Udaku," Baba Z said.
"When Killmonger beat T'Challa," Yani said.
"There have been other Udakus who have challenged family members before, centuries ago. N'Jadaka was not the first," Baba Z said.
"Can he refuse?" Disa asked.
"No," T'Challa said.
"This is acceptable to you? Him possibly dying again?" Yani said.
"My grandson will not die," Umama said.
The older woman cradled her chin with her hands.
"When he comes down from the mountain, no one will defeat him. Not here in Wakanda, or out there in the world," Umama said.
Baba Z put a hand on T'Challa's shoulder.
"With T'Challa by his side, we will enter a new age. I never thought I would see something like this, and I ruled this country for a long time. The Black Panther and the Golden Jaguar, together… it has never been done before," Baba Z said with pride.
Their confidence bolstered Yani's faith, and she sat up in her seat, relaxing her shoulders. Disa put her trust in the lineage. Erik wasn't facing another Udaku again.
"Set aside your fears, Yani. Bast would never allow N'Jadaka to be taken from us again," Umama said.
Disa reached for Yani's hand and squeezed it.
Dinner ended on a positive note and Disa mentioned her work issues to T'Challa. She tried not to sound like a bitter snitch, but her reputation was on the line, and having Adebiyi question her skills on every little step was beyond disrespectful. She wanted to use a diplomatic way to bitch slap the Jabari artisan without upsetting M'Baku.
"I will look into this for you," T'Challa said.
Disa sighed with relief. An inquiry from the king helped a lot, especially since he supported her all the way. A little chin check didn't hurt anyone out of pocket. T'Challa tapped his kimoyo beads as their dessert plates were cleared away.
"M'Baku, may I request a favor? Can you bring Adebiyi to the East tea room?"
Disa's eyebrows shot up on her forehead.
"Now?" she whispered to T'Challa.
He held up a hand to pause her. M'Baku's half-form floated in front of T'Challa.
"I can," M'Baku said.
"Let us meet in ten minutes," T'Challa said.
He tapped his bead and glanced over at Disa.
"M'Baku is staying in the palace this week overseeing some official business. We can go talk now."
Disa tilted her head with surprise.
"Better to handle it tonight before you face off again tomorrow," T'Challa said.
Disa glanced at Yani.
"I can take the children to your place with Dante," Yani said.
Dante was already up and ushering his great-grandchildren back from the patio/terrace. Umama and Baba Z joined him by the dining room door.
"Thanks," Disa said.
She followed T'Challa and his Doras to the elegant tea room. Moments later, M'Baku appeared with a gallant stride, followed by Adebiyi.
"Lady Abdullah," M'Baku said, giving her a warm gap-toothed smile.
"Hello, M'Baku," Disa said.
Adebiyi already had down-turned lips, but she noticed how different he looked with regular clothing on. He and M'Baku both wore casual robes much different from the official look of the Jabari people when they interacted with the Wakandans. Her nemesis rolled his eyes at first, and then he took in her dressed-up appearance with a trace of surprise. She looked away quickly to let T'Challa speak.
"M'Baku, Lady Abdullah has some differences to work out with Adebiyi that have come to my attention," T'Challa said.
The king's serious eyes darted over to Disa, and she cleared her throat and held her head high.
"The man doesn't respect my expertise or the way I handle the Phase Two project. I can't continue working with someone who fights against my vision. I have great respect for Adebiyi's artistry, but we cannot work together in the future if he continues to second-guess me," she said.
Adebiyi stared at her as if she had thrown grits on him and puffed up his chest. M'Baku held a hand up to him and stared at Disa.
"Adebiyi is the best in our land. Trained by an elder artisan from a long line extending seven hundred years. You will find no one better. I do not say this because he is my wife's brother, but because he is the greatest builder we have."
Disa blinked several times and took a deep inhale.
"He is your brother-in-law?" she squeaked out.
M'Baku nodded.
"With all due respect, Lady Abdullah, I do not feel that I have disrespected you. Challenged you, yes. Brought issues to your attention that I think you overlook, yes. I am a blunt man and perhaps that is something you are unaccustomed to," Adebiyi said.
His lips grew tight, and he crossed his bulky arms, looking smug and justified in his behavior.
"Cultural differences can create friction when two people from unique places come together," T'Challa said, trying to smooth over the tension.
"I've traveled the world," Disa said, "he has not. I'm accustomed to working with all kinds of people, but Adebiyi treats me like I'm beneath him. I am Lady Abdullah from the House of Udaku. The mother of a royal. I demand civility at all times and this is something he has a problem with because he sees me as an inferior—"
"Have I ever called you inferior, Lady Abdullah?" Adebiyi asked.
He stepped toward her and M'Baku lowered his eyes as if he expected his extended family member to act a fool.
"You treat me as such. No words need to be spoken if it is understood by body language, tone, and sucking of teeth—"
Adebiyi sucked his teeth.
"See? Shit like that!" Disa shouted.
Her loud voice startled Adebiyi, and he quickly stepped back in the king's presence. Disa took advantage of the royal support and sauntered over to the arrogant man.
"I have won awards all over the world. I chose you to work with me because I respect your craft, your experience, and your knowledge of Wakandan history. I'm exceptional at what I do. Work with me, not against me. If my ideas and plans are not up to snuff, come at me as a colleague and your superior with respect. I'm a big girl and can handle critiques and concerns. I will not, however, tolerate the way you act in front of other people. Bringing this matter to the king was the last thing I wanted to do, but since you act so ridiculous… here we are," she said.
"Kumkani, I am not a man who would treat a member of your family with disrespect," Adebiyi said.
"Tuh," Disa said, folding her own arms.
"Untighten your tongue and speak to her," T'Challa said, placing his arms behind his back and stepping next to M'Baku. The Jabari leader touched the back of his neck and pursed his lips with discomfort at the situation. He eyed Adebiyi with quiet contemplation.
Adebiyi looked at Disa with humiliation in his eyes. Being chastised in front of the king and his brother-in-law had to have knocked him down a peg or two.
"May we speak together in privacy, Adebiyi and I?" Disa said.
T'Challa held out his hand and had M'Baku follow him out of the tearoom.
"This was unnecessary. You could have spoken to me before running off to tattle like some child," Adebiyi hissed.
"I tried to speak to you several times, but you were dismissive and rude. You left me no choice but to speak to the king."
"Now what? Am I supposed to get on my knees and beg for forgiveness? I did this project as a favor for my youngest sister. I could care less about working for you."
"Do you always have to be a dick?"
"I am forthright and honest."
"You are, and I get down with that… I really do Adebiyi. But sometimes you make me feel like I'm trash and it hurts me."
Disa held her head down, not expecting to tell him her deepest feelings. She turned away and wiped at her eyes.
"I have a lot on my plate... a lot of expectations weighing on me. I'm one of the first immigrants to your country, and my presence… my family's presence, has changed your country so much. I don't know if that angers you and makes you want to sabotage my work… or if you genuinely just hate anyone who isn't Jabari—"
"I don't hate you."
Disa glanced back at him. He lowered his head.
"I am sorry if I made you feel bad about yourself. In my work, I am always in charge. Working for you has been difficult. Sometimes I do not see your vision, and others pretend they do. I speak out because… that is how I am."
"It feels like you are attacking me personally, not what's on the table," she said.
"I will give the king my resignation—"
"I'm asking you to believe in me, Adebiyi."
"I do not think I can, Lady Abdullah. We are too different."
"This disappoints me. When I told your sister that I chose you, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She is so proud of you and your talents. Her last words to me when I saw her in person were, 'You will be so impressed with what Adebiyi can do'. She didn't even tell me you were her brother."
Adebiyi's eyes grew soft at the sound of his sister's name. His broad shoulders slumped forward, and he wiped his forehead.
"If you quit, it will only reflect poorly on you. Not me. I know what I'm doing and I need your gifts," she said.
He turned away and headed for the door. Disa wilted until he stopped.
"Do not mention this to my sister. I will stay and work with you. If my behavior upsets you again in the future… speak to me directly," he said.
She nodded, and he exited. T'Challa returned to her side alone.
"How was he?" T'Challa asked.
Disa shrugged.
"I hope he will do better."
"M'Baku will talk to him."
"I wish you had spoken to him on your own first."
"No. The Jabari prefer direct confrontation. I wanted the man to face all of us at once. Let me know if he doesn't work out. They revere him in the mountains, but he is not the only person capable of carrying out your vision," T'Challa said.
"Thank you. Goodnight," she said.
She squeezed his arm and left for her home.
Yani waited for her inside a chaotic living room with their children running around laughing and playing chase with laser tag toys. Dante took part, huffing about out of breath and holding his side. Riki raised his laser gun and shot a green light beam across the room, striking Dante's chest vest, and causing it to blink with flashing red and yellow lights. Sydette cackled as she took out her brother from behind with the help of Joba.
"Everything okay?" Yani asked.
"For now. We'll see in the future. Adebiyi is Ayomide's older brother."
"What?!"
"I know… she never said a thing to me."
Disa glanced around, watching all the chaos babies play with Dante.
"Can you spend the night with the children? I need to just get some things off my mind. Work… Challenge Day. I feel like I need a vacation from everything," Disa said.
"We can stay," Yani said.
Disa smiled, and Yani's expression changed. She glanced back at their children, then stepped closer to Disa.
"I have an idea and maybe you'd like to do it with me?" Yani said.
"What about?"
"I have a lot of vacation time accrued from the hospital and I want to go back to St. Thomas for Juvay. Would you be open to coming with us? Getting out of Wakanda will probably do us both good right now while Erik is away."
Disa stared at Yani, unsure of how to respond.
"Plenty of parties. The children can swim all day together, and my Aunt Leona will spoil you with her food. Twyla is going back, and I invited Marisol, too. It can be a fun Girl's Trip. Joba really wants to meet Jerome, my little brother. He's an iguana, but we treat him like family."
Yani giggled, and her eyes twinkled. Disa closed her eyes and clasped Yani's hand.
"I think a family trip is what we all need."
"You can come back energized and ready to handle that Jabari bully," Yani said.
Disa rolled her eyes.
"If he wasn't such a stubborn, annoying ass, he would be an okay dude… what?"
Yani grinned and put a hand on her hip.
"Hearing you say that sounds like you're talking about Erik."
"That probably will be him in twenty years. As much as the Wakandans act egalitarian with women, there are still some men here who want to drag us back to the stone ages."
"Mmhmm."
The screechy squeals of the children drew Disa's attention away. The three little ones looked so happy. Stress, family tensions, and mourning affected them too. She clapped her hands loudly and gathered their attention.
"Guess what?" Disa said.
"What?" all three children said, staring at her with shiny eyes.
"We are going to St. Thomas!"
Twyla, Marisol, Leona, and the rest of Yani's immediate family waited for them on the private boat dock as the Royal Talon Fighter floated down. A ramp slid out and there were excited whoops and shouts for their arrival. The balmy heat struck Yani, and she closed her eyes, inhaling deep the scent of home.
Riki and Sydette dashed off the Talon ramp and jumped into the arms of her parents and Leona. Her sisters hugged her and greeted Disa, Joba, and Dante. The weight of Wakanda slid from her shoulders. There were Dora Milaje assigned to them, but one of them was Noxolo, so she was happy that someone close to Erik was with them as their security. The children loved her and she looked around wide-eyed at the island's beauty.
"There he is!" Yani said, reaching for Disa's arm and pulling her toward Jerome, who lounged in a tree looking down at them near the swimming pool.
Yani gave them all a tour, and her childhood companion still ruled the compound. His skin was a little ashen around the end of his tail and the top of his crown, but Jerome still had a lot of life still left in him. Joba was nervous meeting him, but Riki climbed the tree and pet Jerome's back.
"Jerome, that's my baby sister. You be nice to her!" Riki shouted.
Her cousin CeCe brought her young children down from the second house and several other cousins had their kids, so the children disappeared with Noxolo tailing them. Dante sniffed the air and threw out his hands.
"Beautiful. Simply beautiful."
"And hot," Leona said, reaching for Dante's hand. "Let mi get you a cool drink and some food."
"Can't say no to that. How are you, my lovely lady?" Dante said.
The older relatives and her parents followed them up to the house.
"She'll be on the phone late tonight gathering up the hens to fix him up with one of her friends," Twyla said, sucking her teeth.
With the help of Twyla, Marisol, and CeCe, they collected all of their luggage on two trips before settling inside the main house for refreshments. The familiar odor of the dwelling hit her right away, and she paused in her steps. Disa looked around, admiring the artwork and layout. Yani touched her chest and shivered at the ghostly memories that rushed her.
Twyla and CeCe brought out mixed drinks with snacks, and they feasted. Marisol spoke of her fun hanging with Twyla and Cece for a week prior to their arrival. Her bubbly personality had CeCe in awe of her. By the time Leona called to meet up at the front house for dinner, all five of them were tipsy and bonded like a band of wild women out to have a good time. Yani's sister Anika hugged her and rubbed her hands across Yani's freshly clipped hair.
"You ever growing this out?" Anika asked.
Almost twenty-one, Anika was a big woman now, not that pesky little girl who babysat Sweet Pea in a cramped apartment. She wore her hair relaxed and long, liked her nails done, and became a fashionista working in a hotel boutique selling tourists expensive outfits. Pretty and full of youthful energy, Yani wondered if she would've been like that if she hadn't had a baby so young. Picturing her baby sister carrying a toddler around and juggling three jobs made Yani feel so weary for her younger self. Women needed time to experience life, and not have kids so early.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Anika asked.
"You're so pretty and funny," Yani said, stroking the ends of her sister's hair.
Taking her seat at a large table, her family broke bread with their new guests and it felt like old times… well… not quite… not until Kendall showed up with gifts and superstar energy. Yani ran to him when he swept into the dining room. Her cousin was a bigger celebrity now, and for him to take time away from Miami to be back home was a big deal and cost him money. He'd moved into producing more and there were international artists lined up to work with him in the states.
"I can't miss being with the Fam with Juvay coming!" Kendall shouted.
She stuffed herself with peas and rice, oxtails, and stew chicken. Leona piled their plates with mango glazed short ribs and spicy shrimp salad. It was a feast for the ages.
"Mi belly full," Yani whined.
Sydette rubbed Yani's stomach.
"Can we go swim at the cove?" Sydette pleaded. "Mi wahn take Joba there."
"After a nap," Yani said.
The children whined, but Leona and Yani's mother Paula led them to the second house for naptime. Her father, Halston, took Dante outside to talk and drink beer for men's time, leaving everyone else free to do whatever they wanted. Disa wanted to rest, and she followed Marisol to the room they would share in the main house, leaving Yani with Twyla.
"Look at you, Dr. Galiber," Twyla said.
Yani grinned.
"One more year and I will feel comfortable with that title," Yani said.
They shuffled on bare feet to sit at the end of the dock. The Royal Talon Fighter stayed hidden away under a camouflage shield near the private beach. If anything happened, they would fly away quickly, members of the Royal Family.
The tide was low, and they watched a cruise ship heading toward the port. Twyla nudged her shoulder into Yani's.
"Bibi and I are talking about marriage," Twyla said.
Yani's mouth fell open.
"I know, I know… working together brought us closer, and Yani… he believes in me so much!"
Twyla's voice squeaked and her legs jerked about.
"Did he ask you?" Yani asked.
Twyla held up her right hand where a posh diamond and vibranium ring sat. Yani grabbed her finger.
"I noticed this earlier, but since it wasn't on your left hand…"
"I don't want anyone here to know about it yet. You're the only person I've told. I told Bibi I would give him an answer when I returned to Wakanda. Oh, gyal, that man loves him some Twyla!"
Her cousin waved her arms above her head and they giggled like little girls again together. Yani hugged her.
"I'm so happy for you!" Yani said.
"God… Wakanda has given me everything. To think if I hadn't sent Big Man your way on Juvay… my life would be so… I don't know. Killmonger pushed my business proposal through and once he takes the throne, Bibi and I can open our Eco-Tours business together."
"Will you accept his marriage proposal?" Yani asked.
"I will. I know I've kept things private from you, but I wanted to make sure this was right… and it is. He wanted to come here with me to ask for my hand in person from my parents, but I want this just for me."
"Aw! Look at you crying with joy!" Yani teased.
Twyla grinned through her glassy eyes filled with tears. A few leaked down her cheek.
"He thinks I'm the most brilliant and beautiful woman he has ever seen. He was so shy about asking me out. Keeping things professional. We always ended up together at the end of the day. When we began scouting locations to open the business, I realized I needed him to make the company happen properly there. He just wanted to be a tour guide. There's something about him that makes me grateful to wake up in the morning. His love is soothing and sweet, and he can handle me like no man ever could."
Twyla gazed at the water and hugged herself.
"Look, I'm getting goosebumps talking about him," Twyla said, holding out her arms.
Yani watched her cousin's face as it twisted up with emotion and her bottom lip quivered. She rested her head on Twyla's shoulder.
"His family is well off and part of the River Tribe. They wanted him to go into politics, but he wants to be part of welcoming international visitors. He's learning English so fast because he's excited about meeting new people from all over the world. Wakanda makes him so proud and he loves looking at it through my eyes. Sorry, I can't stop crying—"
"You're in love and happy. Cry all you want," Yani encouraged.
Twyla looked at Yani and her face slowly became calm once more.
"Yani, I'm happy for you too," Twyla said.
"For what?"
"For you and Disa. I watched you both since you've been home today and that closeness is back. You were both so chatty with each other and it was like no one else could break that bubble," Twyla said.
Yani nodded.
"This last week has been so good for us. Planning the trip together. Packing. Talking about Erik. God, Twyla, I wish we had her around when we were coming up. I was so consumed with anger for months and pretending I wasn't still processing everything. It was like moving forward and back constantly… I was so wrapped up in mi shit and I lost sight of her feelings… her fears. I missed that friendship—"
"And her jokes," Twyla added.
Yani laughed.
"She has a filthy sense of humor that I love so much. Her stories about traveling and being Muslim and wanting so much to happen for the world… she's like me, but like… older, y'know? For months, it intimidated me all the time. Comparing myself, but she would just tell me that time would bring me to her level soon enough. She just had years on me. With Erik being away, it's like a fog lifted from my eyes and I can let my hurt go finally."
Yani focused on the water and wiggled her toes.
"You two staying down here all day?"
Kendall called to them as he swaggered down the dock with his expensive celebrity shades and designer beachwear. He joined them, smelling expensive and flossing his new Cuban link chain. Yani stood, punched Kendall's shoulder, and rubbed her hand all over his bushy afro. Twyla raised up beside him.
"Open your mouth," Yani said.
Kendall pulled back his generous lips as they saw the gold slugs on his bottom teeth copying Killmonger's signature look.
"Dem Yankee girlies love it," he quipped with pride.
The loud patter of feet from eight children stampeded toward them, led by Sydette.
"Riki!" Yani shouted.
Too late.
The boy leaped off the dock and made a big splash below.
"Things never change with that boy!" Kendall said.
Yani ran to the edge and started scolding him for getting his clothes all wet, but Kendall shoved her arm. She went flailing into the water, followed by Sydette and Joba. The other children made the leap too and Yani treaded in the warm water, scolding them all while laughing about it. The Black mermaid had returned. A wave lifted them all and Joba wrapped her arms around the back of Yani's neck.
"I got you, Joba," Yani said.
They splashed around for twenty minutes until Disa and Marisol showed up.
"Oh my goodness, what is happening out here?" Disa yelled down to them.
Marisol bumped her hip into Disa's, knocking her in, but Twyla shoved Marisol seconds later, who grabbed a hold of Twyla's arm and they both went in. Kendall laughed his ass off at everyone. Noxolo stepped into view and surveyed the scene. Kendall took a step back from her intimidating stance. The spear in her hand didn't help him feel relaxed, either.
"They're all safe and having fun," Kendall said with a sheepish tone.
Noxolo nodded once and went back to patrolling the property near the beach, keeping her eye on all the children present.
"Aye, Fam, I gotta run," Kendall said.
"Where to?" Yani called up.
"The new studio Solomon opened with Henry. I want to check out the new setup," Kendall said.
Yani glanced at Disa who dog-paddled with Joba.
"Disa, would you and Marisol like to check out the studio?" Yani asked.
"Yeah," Disa said, her eyes lighting up.
They led the children out of the seawater dripping wet and sand stuck to their shoes and legs.
"They are a mess," Twyla said.
The walk back up to the second house took a long time because the children wanted to play hide and seek and Riki became distracted by new iguanas on the property. They turned the kids over to all the aunties so that the adults could shower and change. An hour later, they strode through Leona's front house.
"How long will yuh be at the studio?" Leona asked.
She already had a large knife and garlic cloves out in her kitchen when they headed out. Yani kissed her cheek and tugged on the headscarf that covered her long, twisty gray braids.
"A few hours, Auntie," Yani said.
CeCe brought out bread dough from a pantry to form into dinner rolls. A tall Dora named Quamba walked through the kitchen, excusing herself for getting a bottle of water from the large fridge and placing it inside a side bag on her hip.
"Princess Yani, the car is ready for you and your guests," Quamba said.
"Princess?" CeCe scoffed, with a smirk on her face.
Disa, Twyla, and Marisol followed Quamba to the Wakandan retrofitted black luxury SUV in the driveway. Yani grabbed an imported nectarine from a fruit bowl sitting on an unused cutting table. She bit into it, munching while her aunt and cousin stared at her.
"I forgot to tell you, Auntie. Killmonger changed my status in Wakanda. Twyla and Sweet Pea too, because we come from Queen Mary."
Yani put away her fruit, then pulled out a personal copy of the proclamation with Leona's name on it. The shiny purple and gold lettering dazzled, and she handed it to Leona.
"The royal court of Wakanda recognizes you, Leona Galiber, as the descendent of a warrior queen who fought for her people. Whenever you visit my new homeland, you will be treated as an important royal visitor," Yani said with deep pride.
Leona held the parchment in her hand. Her hands trembled as she stared down at her name with the title "Queen" in front of it. Her eyes read the fine print and grew large.
"This here means what, Yani?" Leona asked.
"When he takes the throne, he will elevate you to the title of queen under his rule. Queen Mary came from St. Croix, and because he holds you in his highest regard, he will recognize you as the successor—"
"But my older brother should have this—"
"Killmonger chose you, Auntie. You were kind to him… cared for him. He won't acknowledge anyone else but you," Yani said.
"What about me?" CeCe said.
Her forehead creased with displeasure, and she bared her teeth along with heated eyes.
"What about you?" Yani said.
"I'm a Galiber too! I should get something!"
"The way you talked bad about him?" Leona shot back. "About Yani?"
CeCe cut her eyes away.
"Queen Mary's blood runs in me too… in my babies," CeCe said.
"Maybe he remembers how badly you talked about him and me," Yani said.
She put a hand on her hip.
"Remember when you said he would just use mi up and throw mi away? Every chance you got, you called him a wasteman… told mi I was a fool for laying up with him. Now you want something from that?" Yani said with an incredulous expression on her face.
"None of we knew who he was… not the real him. Mi only spoke because I was worried… Auntie, you know that," CeCe said.
Leona held the proclamation against her breasts and closed her eyes.
"I always knew there was something special about him. He was so different from the others… cool, calculating… considerate to me and mine. To know he thought about me so many times when I asked for nothing…"
Leona touched Yani's cheek.
"Go have a nice time with Kendall. Dinner will be at seven. Call me if yuh late and I'll keep things warmed up for all of you."
"Auntie, I can hire caterers to take care of everything while we're here," Yani said.
Leona waved her hands about and pushed her toward the back door.
"I want to cook. Our new family is here. They will have my best," Leona said.
Yani kissed Leona's cheek and bounced away as CeCe cut her eyes again and pouted.
Disa took in the lush scenery as they arrived at a home studio on the other side of the island near Sapphire Beach. Behind a luxury condo was a grouping of upscale homes, one of which had been converted into a musical hub.
Walking into it, she immediately felt the creative energy flow as Kendall introduced her to the owner/operator, an older man named Henry, and his partner Solomon, who nearly bent over backward for Yani. A small crowd of eager recording artists sat in a large front room waiting to head into a sizeable recording studio that was stuffed with exceptional sound recording gear and some session players. Her gaze fell upon the empty drum set and her palms itched to hold sticks and play. Kendall sensed this and asked Henry if Disa could play on them before his next track recording. Smitten by her curves and the way her hips swayed, Henry loaned her his own sticks, eager to see if she was as good as Yani claimed.
Disa kicked off her kitten heel sandals and hiked up her lime-colored wrap-around skirt. Warming up by tapping the ride cymbal and testing the high hat, she launched into one of Kendall's last records and Yani's cousin lost his mind when she funked the beat up more than the original record. Henry stood outside the enclosed room with his engineer staring at her with his mouth open through the glass window. The band that had been on a short break joined her with Yani, Marisol, and Twyla stepping into the space with them. Kendall tapped the soundboard and his bright voice flooded the studio with excitement.
"Yani, sing!" Kendall begged.
"Sing what?" Yani said, with her hands on her hips.
Disa scooted her left food securely over the bass pedal and tapped a new rhythmic beat that the bass player followed in a jam session freestyle. The keyboardist peppered in runs and the guitarist grinned while plucking some nasty licks into the mix. Disa eased into her pocket queen groove and the bass player bobbed his head and twisted his lips at how wonderfully stank the sound was. She stayed on the one, and the studio band followed her lead.
"Make up something! You always make up songs," Kendall declared.
Yani glanced over at Disa.
"C'mon Yani! I got this on lock!" Disa said, slamming hard on the crash cymbal to emphasize her point.
"Goddamn!" the bass player exclaimed as Disa switched up the beat and rode the high hat for a spell before going down into the pocket and working the kickdrum.
Yani shook her head and shied away from one of the two standing mics, but Disa switched up the beat again, creating a dancehall cadence that made all the men yell with pleasure. Twyla stepped up and rapped a flow over the beat, and tugged on Yani's sleeve to drag her in.
"Yani, this shit is hot!" Kendall yelled over the speakers.
Yani stepped in front of a mic and closed her eyes, feeling the music.
"Them call mi muma heavy
Bumpa big and mi likkle flat belly
Young and healthy mi nuh done like credit
Wuk fi mi things cyah seh mi beggy beggy
Suh move up, cuz afta mi nuh idle
Bitch yuh time up, and mi know yuh wish yuh did nice suh
A gooda my fault mek the man a hide yuh
Cuz everytime mi walk mi skirt a ride up…" **
Marisol and Twyla squealed and jumped around Yani as she laid down her lyrics. Kendall ran into the room and snagged the other mic, rapping bars that enhanced Yani's playful hook. Disa played with the drum beats more, banging out intricate rhythms that Yani and Kendall slid over effortlessly. Yani turned to face her and sang to Disa directly, playing with the sound of her voice, until Disa stopped playing and waved to Kendall.
"Can we record this? I mean, do an actual taping and redo what you all did?" Disa asked.
Kendall looked back at Henry through the studio glass.
"Henry?" Kendall said.
"I'll pay for the studio time," Disa said. "This is too hot to let it disappear."
"She's good for it, trust me," Kendall said. He winked at Disa, not letting on that Disa could buy the studio ten times over what it cost.
"I'll pay for the studio time of the talent waiting outside if they'll let us sneak in this set before them," Disa offered.
Henry clapped his hands and cued up the boards with the assistant recording engineer.
"I can't even remember what I said," Yani moaned.
"Kendall, you start first and Yani can sing her part right after… add all those ad-libs you did, Yani. Then Twyla, you jump in and we'll have Marisol come through with some Portuguese to give it an international flavor," Disa said.
"Okay band director!" The bassist said.
Disa worked out a plucky intro with the guitar player and showed him how she would come in after him with the bass player. She arranged, directed, and had them performing like they were her own band. The sweetness of Yani's voice made the recording full of sugary pop flavor, and Twyla's deeper voice coming after her cousin's added a rich boldness to the sound like an old-school dancehall queen tone that added heat to all of Yani's sweetness. Marisol's mellow voice gave the track an elevated spice.
The joy in Disa's playing bled through the session, taking her mind away from work and worrying about showing Wakanda her best efforts. They left the studio together in elevated spirits, riding around the island where Twyla pointed out landmarks and great bars. She let the window down and luxuriated in the breeze blowing over her face and curls.
Leona fed them well, and the children entertained them with stories until it was their bedtime. Resting on a pool lounger, Disa drank a glass of wine, stretching her legs, and inhaling the fresh scents of flowers and the ocean. Yani and Marisol joined her, reclining in comfortable shorts and t-shirts.
The next couple of weeks took on the same pacing of swimming, eating, visiting tourist spots, and Yani's old job at a protected mangrove. She guided them on canoes and Disa snorkeled, delighting in the wondrous schools of fish that swarmed around her. Twyla had them on humorous walking tours and showed them statues of the Three Queens, and she snapped plenty of holopics of the one representing Queen Mary.
When they weren't with family, Disa's favorite time spent there was with Yani talking about Erik's consortium and sharing her sketches of what she drew for Yani's vision of a proper birthing hospital for Black women. They spent long nights imagining the beautiful spaces newborns would be born in. Yani had introduced her to a doctor mentor that cared for Sydette when she nearly died, and they walked on Yani's private beach, staring at the stars in the sky and listening to the crash of waves.
"We have worldbuilding resources to do whatever we want, Yani," Disa said.
They walked barefoot into the water, letting the warm liquid lick at their ankles. Standing side by side, the words sank in.
"How does it feel to shape history?" Yani asked.
"Humbling. Scary. Fate really took over our lives meeting, Erik," Disa said.
Yani nodded. Her gaze turned distant, and then she pointed over to some craggy-looking rocks that curved out to sea.
"That's where I was shot," Yani said.
"Oh shit," Disa said.
"It was the last time I saw him. He told me to finish school to be a doctor and watched me swim into the ocean with Sweet Pea on my back and Riki inside of me. I miss him, Disa."
"I do too."
"I see his vision... I see what he wants to do. I worry I'm not qualified, but he believes in me… believes in us. The day he left, I went to his office and saw all the important things he wants to accomplish, and I want him to succeed," Yani said.
"In school, he always talked about what he wanted to do, and the conviction in his voice… his demeanor… there is no way Allah will allow him to fail. He has us. His children. He always had spunk and determination," Disa said.
"Mpilo told me that is what he had on his face when he left. Determination. I'm so glad you came here, Disa," Yani said.
"I am too."
Disa's kimoyo lit up. She gave an enormous sigh.
"What?" Yani asked.
"My head of construction. I need to take this."
"Stay. I'll go back up and give you privacy. Dominoes by the pool at nine."
"Hopefully, I won't have to scream at this man," Disa said.
Yani smiled and left her to her call.
Disa took a deep breath and tapped her kimoyo. Adebiyi's stern face floated before her.
"I'm on vacation. This couldn't wait?" Disa asked in a pleasant voice, trying to bite back on her annoyance. Answering him was a simple courtesy for her friendship with his sister.
"I would not bother you, Lady Abdullah, for simple matters. I want to inform you of some underwater seismic activity off the coast that is concerning. We have halted work until we can determine how aftershocks will affect us. A tsunami warning was issued for our coast, along with Kenya and Niganda's coastline."
"Thank you for telling me personally," she said.
Adebiyi wasn't in the palace anymore with M'Baku. He looked to be in his own private residence.
"King T'Challa has sent a crew to check our floating foundations for any damage."
"I would like daily updates until I return," Disa said.
"This could push us back on your deadline," he said.
"I don't care about that right now. Safety is important. Has there been seismic activity like this before?" she asked.
"Not as alarming as this one."
"Please call me at this same time tomorrow," she said.
"As you wish."
Adebiyi hung up first, and Disa felt a sense of relief flow over her. T'Challa was on top of it and the deadline for completion delayed was a nice breather from Adebiyi in person and dealing with her team back at the office.
She glanced over at the spot where Yani had been shot and walked toward it, trying to picture a woman fleeing for her life and that of her children. Turning around, she looked at the sand and the path back toward the main house. Somewhere, there was a mass grave filled with dead men that Erik had buried.
The world wouldn't know what hit it once he came back to the palace.
Disa couldn't wait.
Chapter 58 HERE.
Author’s Note:
** The lyrics Yani sings is Jada Kingdom’s “Badum” see video below after tag list!
“Black Boys Bloom Thorns First: Volume 4, Chapter 60″
Need to catch up? Masterlist HERE.
"Yo, these niggas can't breathe when I come through
Hum too, some shoes, gotta be twenty man
It's not even funny they can't (Breathe)
The chokehold's too tight
The left looks too right
You know what? You right
These bitches can't (Breathe)
Look look, they hearts racin', they start chasin'
But I'm so fast when I blow past, that they can't (Breathe)
In the presence of the man
Your future looks better than your past
If you present with the man, you better (Breathe)"
Fabolous – "Breathe"
N'Jadaka took his children with him to Necropolis City.
Defeating the last challenger clinched the throne for him, and the moment they placed the claw necklace of the king around his neck, he knew the real work could begin. Hundreds of Wakandans witnessed his rightful ascension back to his place of power. Fearfully and wonderfully re-made, King N'Jadaka stood before his people and heralded a new age for the kingdom.
Riki was the first to reach him, clamoring for a hug, weepy-eyed, and mouth open to cry out "Baba!", gulping breath and choking on his words to express his happiness at having his father back. Joba circled her arms around his neck too, and N'Jadaka gazed at his eldest, Sydette, who stood wide-eyed, watching him.
"Sweet Pea," he said, and his daughter covered her eyes with her hands and wept.
No more. His children would never have to weep over him again. He was in control of the nation. He made the rules. Steered the ship. Mount Bashenga anointed him with an inner glow that everyone could see and feel. He read it on their faces. Most could barely look him in the eye without quaking in their shoes. He could feel it too and would use it to his advantage. Once his children were soothed and secure, his eyes automatically drifted toward Yani.
She was afraid of him.
Perhaps 'afraid' was too strong a word. Nervous? Unfamiliar with him?
Her gaze flitted across his entire body and there was an awe there. She looked away quickly, and he turned his attention back to the children before he glanced over at his grandfather and Disa. She stared at him in a way that reminded him of their days back at M.I.T. when they had talked all night out in the quad as best friends and comrades against American exploitation. His stay in the mountain realm had recalibrated every part of him. A new set of eyes took in Disa as a trusted companion. His love for her felt changed at that moment. She looked away first, and it was like a rubber band snapping against his skin, a sharp awareness and then a gradual fading.
When his piercing gaze latched on to Yani again, there was a distinct sensation that deepened in intensity. He wanted to touch her, speak to her. It had been so long since he had her in his presence, and there was so much to say.
But duty came first.
"Kumkani, we must leave for the Hall of Panthers," Lithemba said.
She lifted his hand in hers.
"I want my children to come with me… ride over there in the ship," he said.
Lithemba nodded and had her assistant guide the little ones toward the Royal Talon Fighter that hovered above them, waiting. N'Jadaka turned and waved at the crowd who yelled his name, starting another chant that made him give them all a sincere smile. There was so much to do before the huge international delegation arrived in Wakanda. He needed to speak with Nick Fury and also get Nakia up to speed with Ramonda's help.
Ramonda was familiar with many political leaders globally over the years and he needed a jump on all of their personalities and quirks. Regime changes always brought out the scavengers and jackals wanting to pick clean the bones of their enemies, and N'Jadaka was about to make Wakanda enemy number one to the world.
He had to prepare for war.
America was first on his list to destroy as a world power. They were the puppet masters that pulled strings all over the globe. Some Black intellectuals, including his own mother, were fond of quoting Audre Lorde's "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house". N'Jadaka didn't want to disrespect elder wisdom, but the fact was, the C.I.A. did not train Lorde and she never acted in the capacity he had with dismantling entire nations. He had above and beyond the master's tools and training. His rule would devastate them at their own game soon enough.
Joba wouldn't stop staring at him.
As Riki and Sydette watched the world fly by below them, his youngest child studied his face. He kissed her cheek and fingers and settled into enjoying their youthful energy again.
"Can we call you King Baba now?" Sydette asked.
Her eyes twinkled looking at him.
"I'm still just Baba," he said, tugging on her hair beads.
"You were gone so long. Longer than you promised," Sydette said.
"I know. They wanted to make Baba perfect for you," he said.
"You were already that," Sydette said.
"Baba, can we come back and live with you?" Riki asked.
"You have a beautiful home—"
"The palace is our home," Riki insisted.
His son flopped his body across Erik's knees.
"We are supposed to be with the king!" Riki said.
King.
Hearing it from a child made it feel real.
He did it. A kid from Oakland making it all the way to king status on his own terms. The fairytale journey had been long and arduous. So much had been lost, found, and gained over the decades since he left California.
"Look, Baba," Joba said.
The Royal Talon Fighter swooped down and floated above the ongoing repairs for the Hall. The explosion that rocked it left visible scars on the structure that were slowly being covered. Their landing was soft, and he turned to his children.
"I will see you all tonight at the coronation ball," he said.
"Aw, we wahn stay with you," Riki whined.
"This part of the ceremony I must do alone. The Doras will take you back to the palace to rest and prepare for tonight."
He kissed and hugged each one of them.
"You can play in my suite with Grandpop until I return."
The children fretted but blew him kisses. He watched the ship fly off safely before he followed Lithemba into the Hall of Panthers. They strolled past the chambers of his ancestors and headed to an underground dwelling that he had been to before. Four years previously, he had ordered the priests there to burn all the sacred purple heart-shaped herb as a display of his power, knowing full well that Wakandans weren't stupid. They would have seeds saved to create more of the plant. But they wouldn't be able to grow it fast enough to get it to someone else before he changed the kingdom. They did, of course. Nakia had slipped into the chamber and stolen a plant before they burned down all the rest for him.
It was a slow-growing plant, blooming only after two years, so it did not surprise him to see a full garden batch glowing purple from the earthen floor beneath the kings and queens of the past.
"Come this way, King N'Jadaka," Lithemba said.
Altar children stood nearby, watching him with fearful eyes. A young shaman stood aside as N'Jadaka strode through, taking his position on the red earth, the dirt soft against his back. He wondered who would come to him this time. Where would he go? Back to a cramped Oakland apartment?
His heart beat faster, but he pushed back on any doubt that he was worthy of going back into the ancestral realm as a king. He was the Golden Jaguar. An Udaku. A child of the diaspora. It was his rightful time to rule.
Lithemba ground up a plump heart-shaped herb and prayed while she worked, heating it over a low fire near his head. The air in the chamber was thick with incense, and the cloying odor of the herb itself growing only four feet away from him.
"Drink, Kumkani… drink and relax," Lithemba said.
He lifted his head and swallowed down the bitter herb. The children helped bury the red earth all over him and there was a slight panic at having his face covered with dirt. The feeling left him as the heart-shaped herb took hold of him once more, reconfiguring his DNA and taking him under…
N'Jadaka pushed up through the soft earth.
Dressed in the same white knitted robes he wore on Mount Bashenga, he stepped out of his burial mound and into a mystical landscape painted in the hues of purple and blue aurora borealis lights shimmering across a twilight sky. It felt like the same astral dimension Bast kept him in back at her temple. It was familiar and comforting. In the distance, dark trees with flourishing canopies dotted the horizon, and one, in particular, caught his eye. The fruits it bore were several Black Panthers lounging across branches, watching him with shiny, glowing white eyes that turned dark lavender the closer he walked to them.
N'Jadaka stared up at the night sky as the lights danced above them, adding a touch of glowing green to the colors that made the stars twinkle so brightly. He took a deep breath, grateful to be outside and not locked inside a room from his past.
Two lounging panthers stood up from their branches and growled at him, forcing his attention back to them. They both dropped to the ground and a brilliant white light shapeshifted them into humans.
A man and a woman.
N'Jadaka dropped to his knees immediately, not prepared to face these particular ancestors.
"Rise child. You are a king once more. Our equal," the woman said.
Proud. Haughty. Elegant. Beautiful.
Queen Shuriyah stood in front of him in the flesh and tears fell from his eyes.
"This has been quite a journey, eh eh, no… do not wipe your eyes. I know who you are, my son," she said.
Shuriyah held out her hand toward the man next to her.
"Baba, look at your child," she said.
"N'Jadaka…"
The man's voice made him lower his head. The power within it was too much to take in. A mountain was named for him. An entire city. There would be no united Wakanda if not for him.
Bashenga. The Shaman King. The first to taste the heart-shaped herb and use vibranium to catapult his people into the future before the Europeans came out of their filthy caves. The first Black Panther.
"Hear me, son… look at me," Bashenga said.
The light from Bashenga's aura was greater than the lights glowing in the sky. N'Jadaka raised his eyes to level with his greatest grandfather and he recognized an equal.
"It is rare for Bast to come to rulers. She appears only to those that have the task of shifting the tide of the people. I was the first," Bashenga said.
"I was the second," Shuriyah said.
"You are the third, my precious grandson," Bashenga said.
A cultural weight drifted onto N'Jadaka's shoulders. He lifted it and grew accustomed to how it felt carrying it.
"Becoming king is not an easy feat for any Udaku, but our family has prevailed in ruling for centuries because we have always kept a vision of where we wanted Wakanda to be. I am afraid that the old ways have not suited us," Bashenga said.
He wore a large-plumed feather headdress, and a bright scarlet robe draped over one shoulder. He carried a spear and his regal, dark face rested in wisdom. Shuriyah shared the same blood-red colored robe with a tall isicholo. She held her body the way it looked in the painting hanging in his personal office. Older in appearance, she still had the flame of power in her eyes.
N'Jadaka glanced above her head. The light in the sky shifted colors, the evening glow growing lighter with pinks and pale orange until it was daytime, and they stood in a lush grassland green with growing things all around them. Other panthers in the trees dropped and shimmered into his other ruler ancestors, watching him with keen eyes and heads held high like they were honored to see him.
"The tragedy that befell our family brought you here. We needed new eyes… a new voice… a new vision to lead us in the coming troubles… and there is trouble coming, my son. This day and age needs new blood, and your father made us a valuable king. You are a unique man, N'Jadaka. Being a king will not be your only triumph. Inside of you is the wisdom of the diaspora that we turned our backs on long ago," Bashenga said.
"That way of thinking served us for a time," Shuriyah said.
"Why did you go out into the world, Umama, and come back without ruling it all?" N'Jadaka asked.
He had read his father's journals and knew the questions that N'Jobu wanted answers to.
"Our people were not ready to engage with a vast barbaric world," she said. "I saw firsthand what I wished not to be a part of. Tyrants and weakness. Uncivilized people from other places would wage war on us forever to take what is ours. As humans, we made choices you may think unwise or selfish from your era. But you will learn as king that not everyone can see from your vantage point. But now…"
Shuriyah held her hands open and stepped closer to him. She clasped her hands over his and the warmth made him cry again.
"Our people have someone who has been in the world and is from our culture. Your father brought you up as a Wakandan as best he could. Your mother gave you the tools to ready you for ruling Wakanda better than anyone I know of. You, N'Jadaka, were meant to take us into the future. You carry Bast, that rascal, Ogum, and the love of a people who endured centuries of cruelty inside your soul. Who better to lead in this new age, hmm? You came right on time, child. Bend the world on its knees for our people everywhere. We all stand with you and T'Challa. Think of him not as your cousin, but as your brother from now on."
Bashenga placed a hand on N'Jadaka's shoulder.
"Your father and uncle have reconciled. Ease your heart and mind. You are on the right path for our people. It is our time to come out from hiding. Be the light, N'Jadaka—"
"And also the blade, if you have to," Shuriyah affirmed.
N'Jadaka stood taller. He drank in their words. The light in the sky grew brighter. Shuriyah touched his face and Bashenga squeezed his shoulder.
"Go back knowing that all the ancestors stand with you and your brother. The Black Panther and The Golden Jaguar must stand tall and strong," Bashenga said.
N'Jadaka could feel his spirit fading from their realm.
"I won't let you down," N'Jadaka called out as the glow of light blinded him.
The faint vision of Shuriyah floated in the brightness.
"Tell my namesake that I am proud of her," Shuriyah said.
N'Jadaka grinned. Shuri would probably faint when he told her their greatest queen mother watched over her like that.
Red earth choked him as he gasped for air in the world of the living.
N'Jadaka coughed and twisted his body to the side, moving the soft earth away from his stomach and thighs. A young boy brought him water, and he gulped it down. Lithemba knelt down next to him and wiped his face with a warm purple cloth to remove the dirt.
"I saw the Shaman King and my greatest grandmother," N'Jadaka yelped.
Lithemba smiled and gently cleaned his skin, helping him up from the ground. He shook his arms and legs. Sniffing his hands, he caught a whiff of their scent still on him. His body felt feverish and he couldn't stop shaking. They were actual flesh and blood and he saw them… spoke to them. More importantly, they knew him. He was no strange foreign child… he was theirs and they told him so.
"Bring T'Challa to me!" he ordered, grabbing his white robe and tying it around him.
He had to talk to his brother… and Shuri right away.
N'Jadaka hustled away from Lithemba and crossed past the garden of heart-shaped herbs. Flinging the chamber doors open, he ran into his grandparents, Umama, Baba Z, and Dante. He couldn't talk fast enough to tell them who he met on the ancestral plane. Umama stroked his face and led him to an antechamber that was brand new. N'Jadaka's eyes grew wide.
"What is all this?" he said.
Baba Z chuckled, and Dante wiped his eyes. Umama patted his arm and led him inside.
"When I first saw you with my own eyes, I said some things that were not kind when I thought about it later. My sweet grandson, you were the one we have been waiting for. Bast moves in mysterious ways, but your Umama is a little more direct… see…"
A diamond and vibranium sarcophagus stood under the gentle glow of eternal flame candles that surrounded it. A breathtaking wall-sized gold plaque glowed with the brilliance of its Wakandan symbols etched into it. He made out most of the words.
"Umama," he said, gripping her hand tight.
Umama's hands shook, and she blinked rapidly while staring into his face. Baba Z touched the sarcophagus.
"This is for your people, grandson. For the ones who jumped off those ships so long ago into the ocean, and for the ones who lived and made a way out of no way. Understand?" Baba Z said.
"We want to hold a space for them here among our kings and queens. Without them, you would not be here. Our great-grandbabies would not be here, bringing us joy and showing us the future. The diaspora is truly the lost tribe. They will no longer be lost to us here," Umama said.
"Thank you," N'Jadaka said.
He admired the beauty before him and held Dante's hand.
Noxolo and Quamba entered the chamber.
"King N'Jadaka, the Black Panther waits for you back at the palace. Are you ready to depart?" Noxolo asked.
Noxolo still would not gaze at him directly, nor would Quamba.
"Yes," he said.
He kissed all of his grandparents and left them in the resting place of his lost-found kin.
Disa dressed in the tailored metallic bronze and gold dress befitting a royal in the palace. Applying gold lipstick to her dry lips, she geared up to face N'Jadaka again. The moment they crowned him king, no one called him Erik anymore. It was only right. His American name meant king anyway, so it was redundant to use. Califia had been wise to name her son what he would become later in life.
King N'Jadaka.
She wiped away the small trickle of a tear from her left eyelid. He was not the same man anymore. Emotionally, she accepted that, but watching him after he won his claim to the throne, her mind finally accepted it too. Her last intimate moment with him in her suite would be her last. The knowledge of that came over her suddenly because of the aura he carried. They no longer had any unfinished business on a personal level. Had she wanted him, she would've taken him back a long time ago. But the fact of the matter was that they had a glorious season that had difficulties, but Allah solidified their attachment as best friends. Disa loved him, flaws and all. However, King N'Jadaka was another person, and she was not meant to walk that road with him as his woman.
She wasn't sad about it. Affirming it freed her from doubting her needs as a woman with her own mission in life, to work by his side, raise their child together and move the nation forward with her input.
His heart belonged to Yani.
She knew it while spending the last two weeks in St. Thomas. Leona showed her that truth by all the affection she had for N'Jadaka while sharing little tidbits about her time with him there. She let slip other stories about him caring for Sydette, protecting Yani from naysayers, and looking out for anyone connected to her. He really slowed down and lived for once. He never had that opportunity with Disa. They were always on the go, getting through school, getting through the Navy and Black ops, and all the other things she thought was life but were just the constant influx of moving toward something that was not a part of her. Wakanda had been N'Jadaka's destiny and even she couldn't keep up with him on that journey, not the way he needed. It was no one's fault.
Time slowed down for him in St. Thomas, forcing him to be present in a way that he lost as a child. He and Disa had fleeting moments here and there, but the island gave him two years to rest. Allah blessed her with a child from him, but he was made for someone else. That last revelation gave her a soothing peace. Watching N'Jadaka fight at Warrior Falls gave her a security she had missed for years. They were both where they were supposed to be.
As wild as it felt, Adebiyi had a lot to do with that feeling of acceptance.
After Marisol and Dante left the island, Disa spoke to Adebiyi every night, trying to glean any palace gossip she could about what was happening on Mount Bashenga. When he had nothing viable to offer from his talks with M'Baku, they both started pondering how Wakanda would be after Challenge Day. She opened up about her dreams for the country and Adebiyi listened to her with an open mind, letting down his guard about his fears for the future.
His Jabari stubbornness came from a people who had been overlooked for centuries by the Udaku clan. Until T'Challa stepped up, they were treated as throwaway people. Working for Disa gave him some new insight and worry, but talking freely away from work opened him up to a different way of seeing her. More than anything, they liked each other.
Back in Wakanda, she couldn't wait to speak to him as preparations for the coronation whirled around them. She had tea with Adebiyi in the royal garden and invited him for a meal with the royal family while Joba spent a few days with Yani and her siblings. He spoke to her like a human being and, by their second tea date to discuss coming to the Jabari lands, Disa knew he was attracted to her. He had stopped sucking his teeth whenever she said something that he questioned. That was a big deal.
She kept her feelings about him discreet from everyone, including Adebiyi. The idea of going up to his land before N'Jadaka was king crossed her mind a lot, but she opted to wait until she saw him again before striking out on something as ridiculous as a grown-up crush. At her big ole age? With a man who carried so much disdain when he first met her? Madness! Pure, sweet madness for sure.
And what would N'Jadaka think? His feelings mattered to her, and she didn't want to embarrass him or bring critical eyes to his rule. For the time being, she just wanted to get to know Adebiyi better, work with him, and create something wonderful for her new homeland. He matched her energy in ways that surprised her, even through his stubborn exterior. Plus, he was older, something that she always found attractive in men. N'Jadaka had been an anomaly in her love life, the youngest man she had ever gotten mixed up with.
Shaking her head at all the jumbled thoughts running through her head, Disa admired her beauty in the mirror. She was an older woman who had done amazing things in her life before and after N'Jadaka. There was more on the horizon for her. Adebiyi was giving her an inkling of all kinds of possibilities to enjoy other men. For a moment, she thought she could share love for a man with Yani, but her feelings for the king had shifted away from the romantic to the platonic, and a more sisterly kinship. Her faith had always delivered what she needed, and she trusted in that.
"Joba!" Disa called out.
Her daughter ran into the room with her nanny, Osilee, a cute, plump woman with laughing eyes and a kind nature.
"Oh, look how pretty you look! Osilee, you did a wonderful job with her hair!"
Disa touched the intricately twisted curls decorated with purple ribbons. Joba twirled around in her gauzy gold dress and little kitten heels.
"Let's go! Let's go!" Joba shouted, grabbing Disa's hand and pulling her towards the door.
"Alright, alright little girl!" Disa said.
"Have a wonderful evening, Lady Abdullah," Osilee said. "I will watch everything on the vid screen."
"Oh, I wish you would come with us," Disa said.
"I would be too nervous, but I will come for Princess Joba when you are ready for her bedtime tonight."
"I left you a surprise in your closet."
"My closet?"
"You didn't look?" Disa said.
Osilee walked away from them and headed to the back of their home. Joba shook her hands with excitement.
"Will she like it?" Joba asked.
"We will see," Disa said.
Moments later, they heard a loud shout and Osilee scurried back to them, carrying a delicate peach ball gown made just for her.
"Lady Abdullah… this is too much!" Osilee said.
"You will look beautiful!" Joba said.
"No matter what you decide, there is a table set aside for our personal staff to join us for the dinner and reception. Everyone will be there. No need to sit in the house and watch it when you can be there with us," Disa said.
Weepy-eyed, Osilee clutched the dress to her chest.
"I don't want to hold you up," Osilee said.
"You won't. Go on and change. You can go with us."
"But you are royalty—"
"You take care of my child and make sure my home is kept together when I'm working."
"Oh, this is not happening…."
"It is. Go on."
Disa waved her hands to shoo Osilee away to get ready. Her kimoyo beads lit up, and she tapped one bead to open her front door. Dante and Yani were there with the other children.
"You all look wonderful!" Disa said.
She gave Dante a hug and greeted her daughter's siblings with affection.
"Yani?" Disa said.
Yani dressed in an elegant, pale gold strapless gown with pale yellow diamonds glued across her clavicle. Delicate gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears and her impeccable make-up made her glowing brown skin look like satin.
"Is everything alright? Are you sick?" Disa asked.
She pulled Yani away from the children and cornered her near a fireplace.
"I'm so nervous… to see him," Yani whispered so Dante wouldn't hear.
Disa held her hand.
"You saw him, Disa. He's… beyond different. I'm not ready to face him. So much has happened since he's been away, and I don't—"
"Listen to me. Tonight, we'll have all the family with us. It'll be hectic, but many people will surround us with fun, and you won't have to think about anything else."
"He's all I think about. All day. Remy fought against him. The man I chose to take care of our children tried to kill him. I can't even look at him… you felt that too… his energy is so strong… like he can control everything... everyone."
"The mountain changed him, yes. But Yani, we have to go to the throne room with all of his family, and that includes us. We will walk behind him across the bridge and face the nation together. I'll be there with you, and it won't be so unsettling."
Disa cradled Yani's cheek.
"I promise," Disa said.
Yani inhaled and let out a shuddery breath.
"Lady Abdullah."
Disa turned to find Osilee dressed up. She touched her short braids and looked down at the flattering gown, seeking Disa's approval.
"Beautiful… you look beautiful," Disa said. "Doesn't she look amazing, Yani?"
Yani nodded, and turning her attention onto someone else helped calm her nerves.
"We better leave before we hold up the pre-gathering," Disa said.
Yani followed her back to the others, and their personal Doras waited for them at the front door. They walked through the palace with chattering children and clacking heels. When the giant double doors of the throne room were opened for them, Disa and Yani both had the wind knocked out of them.
King N'Jadaka sat on the throne and peered at them both with assertive, commanding eyes. Instead of the royal black robes, he was adorned in bright ivory, his hair piled high and his nose ring gleaming as bright as the beads in his beard. Disa clutched at her chest, and Yani's reaction mirrored her own. That man was more than a king. He was magnificent.
Her heart raced in her chest and she glanced down at their daughter.
"Baba!" Joba yelled.
N'Jadaka stood from his throne and the large extended family parted like the red sea to let his children come through. The Council of Elders stood to the side of the throne with T'Challa, whose ivory tunic and trousers matched the king's colors. After greeting his children, the elders spoke to the family and made the final declaration welcoming N'Jadaka to his sacred duty of protecting Wakanda and all of its citizens. A celebratory shout broke the serious tension afterward and relatives hugged and patted the new king.
He walked through the gauntlet of the family toward Disa and Yani, holding the hands of Riki and Joba. Sydette clung to his robe with a wide grin plastered across her proud face.
"Disa," N'Jadaka said.
"Your Highness," Disa greeted.
A sly smile moved his beautiful lips, and he leaned over and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes and savored the sound of love in his voice, but also the visceral power he exuded from every pore in his body. They would indeed be the best of friends forever, and she relaxed in his presence.
"Congratulations, king," Disa said with a hint of teasing.
He nodded and turned toward Yani. She held her head down shyly with her hands threaded together in front of her. His energy was overwhelming and Disa couldn't blame Yani for keeping her eyes downcast.
"Yani," he said.
Yani gasped, and her shoulders shook.
"Look at me," N'Jadaka commanded.
Yani slowly raised her head, and a tear rolled down her face.
Drummers pounded out the king's march, and a griot plucked the delicate strings of a Wakandan lyre made from the long horns of an ancient antelope. Another musician played a small kalimba, giving the lyre a gentle companion sound.
"Make way for King N'Jadaka!" Noxolo yelled, stepping next to him.
N'Jadaka took his thumb and wiped away Yani's tear before kissing her forehead.
"Don't be afraid of me," he told her.
Yani nodded, and he left her side, sweeping into the wide halls with the swagger of a god, his children in tow.
