Page 209 of Kentrell

At first, I stayed where I was—still, hands tucked beneath my cheek, staring at the soft flicker of the fireplace across the room. Letting the space between us shrink without touching. But then… he reached for me. Slow. Gentle. Certain.

One strong arm curled around my waist, pulling me back until my body pressed flush to his chest like I’d always belonged there. I didn’t resist. Didn’t even think about it. The heat of his skin soaked through the soft cotton of the tee I wore, and the steady rise and fall of his breath landed warm and unhurried against the back of my neck.

I closed my eyes and let myself exhale, releasing air I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. For the first time all day, something inside me loosened.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer advice. Didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed in this moment. He just held me. Strong and steady. Like certainty in human form.

And in that stretch of quiet, I didn’t feel broken anymore. Just tired. And safe.

I sank deeper into the mattress, into him, into the kind of comfort I hadn’t asked for but needed more than I realized. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against my hip—barely there but still enough. A silent reassurance.

At some point, he pressed his lips to the back of my shoulder. Soft. Lingering. No pressure. Just a promise.

I didn’t need words. Not tonight.

Because his silence said everything.

And for now, that was enough.

SEVENTEEN

KENTRELL

It had been two weeks.

Fourteen long-ass days since the fire ripped through Zoe’s brownstone and turned her whole world into ash and rubble. Fourteen days since she walked in on her mother and that bastard—robe half open, lies spilling just as easy as their excuses—like they weren’t holding on to the kind of secret that could crack her clean in half.

And fourteen days since I realized what the fuck Malcolm really was.

Her brother.

And the devil.

That revelation had been riding my chest like an asthma attack I couldn’t recover from. Sitting there, pressing down on me every time I looked at her. But I hadn’t said shit. Not because I wasn’t ready to act—God knew I was—but because she needed me more than I needed revenge.

So I stayed.

Held her when she cried. Fucked her when she needed to forget. Fed her when she barely touched her plate. Bathed herwhen she didn’t want to move. Carried her on the nights when getting out of bed felt like too much.

I became her everything without asking for a damn thing in return.

And now… right here… right now…

She was finally smiling again.

Zoe sat straddling me, the blanket barely covering her ass, both of us naked and tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat, skin, and sex. Her head was thrown back in laughter—the kind that used to echo down her hallway when we first met, before the world showed its teeth.

“Boy… you stupid,” she giggled, swatting at my chest with that small, lazy palm of hers like she hadn’t just been clawing at me fifteen minutes ago.

“You love it,” I smirked, more focused on how her eyes squinted when she laughed… how her hair, wild and wavy, spilled down over her shoulders… how her skin still glistened from round three—or maybe it was four by now. Hell, I’d lost count.

She leaned down and kissed me. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss that tasted like contentment and sweat and whatever this was turning into between us.

I was just about to flip her over—already plotting my next move—when the sharp beep of the security tablet on the nightstand lit up, flashing bright enough to pull me back to reality.

My eyes darted to the screen just as the alert scrolled across in bold white text:

FRONT DOOR – OPENED

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