Page 42 of Rose
“No kids. No wife. Pops OD’d a while ago. Doesn’t speak to his mom. No real ties.”
“Bet. Appreciate you.”
He hung up. No goodbyes. No hesitation. Savior was already moving, tossing his tools onto the tray and wiping sweat from his neck as he headed to his truck.
He moved like death in motion, changed into a fresh black tee and jeans, climbing into his truck with calm precision. His engine roared to life, drowning out everything but purpose. The city blurred around him, shadows stretching with the fall of night, and he felt it—the shift in the air. He’d taken a lot of lives. All justified. All earned. But this one? This one was different.
Bernard Willis wasn’t a threat to society. The only thing he endangered was his liver. But he’d disrespected the wrong woman, and that made him a threat to something far more valuable.
Her.
Savior didn’t know why he cared so much, didn’t know what it was about Ahzii that had him ready to spill blood without a second thought. Maybe it was the way her voice cracked when she said she was fine. Maybe it was the storm in her golden-brown eyes. Or maybe it was just the way she existed—untouched by fear, unaware of her power.
She didn’t know it yet, but tonight, Ahzii was chaos incarnate. And Savior? He was ready to protect it. With everything.
Savior—no,Khaos—sat on a worn-down couch, legs stretched long, one size 15 boot resting on a coffee table that looked one breath away from collapse. The tiny TV flickered in front of him, screen so small it looked more like a tablet than a television. A crime documentary played, its tinny volume battling the silence. Khaos watched it like he was at home in front of his 85-inch screen with the sound bar shaking the walls. Comfortable. Unbothered. Deadly.
The house reeked of cheap bourbon, cigarette smoke, and despair. The walls were yellowed, stained by time and poor decisions. Microwave dinners littered thecounter. It was the kind of space that had seen more fistfights and liquor bottles than sunlight.
And Khaos? He wasn’t focused on the life he was about to take.
His mind was elsewhere.
Onher.
The creak of the front door snapped him out of it. Right on cue.
“Man, I ain’t cheating on you! Chill with that insecure shit,” a voice barked from the hallway. Loud. Careless. Full of liquor and ego. Khaos didn’t flinch. Just kept watching the screen, his body still, calm as a lake before a storm.
Footsteps drew closer. Heavy. Sloppy. Then silence.
Khaos smirked.
The man had seen him.
“Hold up, bitch. I’ma call you back,” Bernard stammered, voice cracking.
“You love calling women bitches, huh?” Khaos asked, still locked in on the screen. His tone? Ice-cold. Flat. The kind of calm that came before something unspeakable.
Bernard stepped further in, but stayed close to the wall, like touching furniture might anger the devil in his living room.
“Khaos?” he croaked, voice small now.
Khaos didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. “So youdoknow who I am.”
Bernard didn’t answer, but the fear in his eyes was answer enough. He’d heard the stories. Maybe even seen the aftermath. Savior Carter, the ghost in the dark. Miami’ walking death sentence.
“Sit down, nigga.” Khaos finally turned his head, slow. “Let’s chat. You clearly need a lesson on how to talk to women.”
Bernard hesitated, eyes darting toward the exit like that would save him.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” Khaos said, eyes already back on the screen like the documentary was more interesting than him.
Reluctantly, Bernard shuffled forward and dropped onto the far end of the couch. Khaos stood, walked over, and sat right next to him. Close enough to feel his fear radiate off his skin like heat.
The man smelled like sweat, smoke, and the bottom of a bourbon bottle. His clothes were rumpled, stale, but his lineup was fresh—typical. Prioritized appearances over morals. Over respect.
Khaos glanced at him, studying him the way he studied targets in war. Bernard’s hands trembled in his lap. His eyes darted around like he didn’t even live here.
