Page 100 of Riot

But what I did know was this.

I wanted him.

And I was getting closer to asking for all of him. Every hard inch.

Because if he could make me feel this undone without even sliding inside, I couldn’t imagine what the rest would feel like.

And I was ready to find out.

I spent the morning wrapped in the rhythm of a city that was starting to feel like mine.

Harlem moved like a pulse that was steady, strong, never rushing but never still. I walked beneath brownstone stoops and awnings, past vendors selling incense and mango slices sprinkled with chili powder. The air smelled like ambition and soul. It made me feel like I could become whoever I wanted to be.

Today, I chose to be a woman in motion.

I signed up for a series of fashion courses at an art center tucked between a laundromat and a Caribbean takeout spot. Advanced sewing. Draping. Intro to textiles. It was time to super charge my skills. I’d been sketching and practicing at the house but I was quite rusty when it came to my technicals skills.

I needed to move my hands again. To create something out of fabric and fire. To tell the story of a girl who lived in white for ten long years and now wanted to drape herself in color. In defiance. In desire.

My fingers itched to cut, to pin, to shape. I wanted to make clothes that felt like freedom. Dresses that whispered survival.Coats that screamed power. I wanted women to wear my pieces and feel like no one could cage them.

But even with the city swirling around me, even with my new steps of independence, I wasn’t without shadows.

I still had flashbacks.

Sometimes it was the sound of a door slamming behind me too hard. Other times, it was the echo of a man’s voice a little too sharp, a little too familiar. My heart would pound, my knees would go soft, and I’d have to remind myself that I wasn’t trapped anymore. That I wasn’t beneath that house. That my every move wasn’t being watched.

But now I was here. Walking free. Breathing free. Loving free.

My phone buzzed just as I stepped out of an African boutique where I’d picked up some Morrocan silks. Riot’s name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” I answered, already smiling.

His voice was low and gravel-smooth. “You good?”

“Yeah. I just signed up for some classes. Got some things to help me start designing again.”

“That’s what I like to hear. I’m proud of you.”

My heart swelled. He always knew how to say the right thing.

“I just got a call from my cousin. And he said Irina’s back with him,” he said after a pause. “She asked about you. Wants to see you.”

I didn’t respond right away. My feelings toward Irina were complicated. She had helped me, yes. Snuck me out. Lied for me. Risked something. But she’d also watched me live like that for years and done nothing for most of them.

Still, my curiosity was stronger than my anger.

“I want to see her too,” I said.

“I’ll come get you,” Riot replied. “Don’t worry about anything.”

There was a beat of silence before his voice dropped lower. “I’m gonna pump her for everything she knows about your father. And then I’m gonna end him.”

The air left my lungs in a slow exhale. He meant it. I could hear the fire in his voice. Riot didn’t play when it came to me. And as much as the thought of more bloodshed made my stomach twist, part of me needed that closure. I needed to know Boaz wouldn’t crawl out of the shadows again. That his reign was finally over.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“I got you,” he promised. “Always.”

---