Page 55 of Rose
After patting herself dry, she reached for the lotion sitting next to the clothes—something soft and vanilla-scented. She knew Kiyan left it there for her. That small gesture didn’t change anything, but it did speak to the kind of man he was.
She slipped on the t-shirt and boxers, the fabric swallowing her in the most flattering way—loose enough to be comfortable, snug enough to remind you she was still all curves beneath it.
She padded out of the room, planning to thank him, but paused when she heard his shower running upstairs. No use waiting. She was thirsty anyway.
Navigating the dark, she headed downstairs toward the kitchen. She’d been here enough times to move without flipping the lights on.
Until—
“That nigga must not’ve satisfied you.”
The voice—deep, raspy, unfamiliar andtoo close—made her jump.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
She froze mid-step, breathing sharp, eyes scanning the shadows.
The living room sat still in the darkness.
Her fingers fumbled toward the nearest lamp, flipping the switch with shaky hands. Warm light bathed the room—just enough to illuminate the figure leaning casually in the corner.
Savior.
The man from the barbershop. The man whose presence had haunted her in silence.
Now, in the stillness, she actually saw him.
The chill that ran through her was more than fear—it was recognition.
He was fine in that dangerous, carved-from-stone kind of way. Deep chocolate skin that shimmered like polished mahogany, waves still sharp, the cut clean and gleaming. His face was stoic, but his mouth twisted into a slow, knowing grin.
What stopped her—whatsnatchedher attention—were the tattoos. Intricate, detailed, stories inked into skin. Even standing in the fog of fear, the artist in her was mesmerized.
Still, her voice came out low, controlled.
“What do you want?”
Her eyes flicked toward the stairs. Kiyan was still in the shower. She silently begged him to come down. Now.
Savior chuckled, flashing white teeth lined in a gleaming gold grill.
“The real question,” he said smoothly, “is why you fucking with a nigga who can’t even fuck you to sleep—let alone give you something comfortable to wear?”
Ahzii glared, jaw tightening, but her eyes involuntarily dropped to her borrowed shirt and boxers.
That wasn’t Kiyan.
Hegave her the clothes.
The thought made her stomach twist.
“How did you even—”
“You move quiet when you’ve spent your life surviving,” he said, cutting her off, his tone unreadable.
His gaze slid down her body, slow and deliberate.
“Too beautiful of a woman to be treated like a late-night option,” he added, licking his lips with the kind of hunger that made her body tense and her throat dry.
