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bbybasura · 21 days ago

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The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Six

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Beaufort County, South Carolina–1912

They called her Lula-Bee when she was little.

It was her grandmother’s name for her, soft as the low country wind. Said she was born with honey on her tongue and bees in her blood. That name stuck to Violet’s skin like sugar. When her grandmother, Mama Bee, said it, it sounded like a blessing. When her mother said it, it sounded like a burden.

Violet’s earliest memories were of being wrapped in lavender-scented arms, cradled in a world of old songs and sea wind, her grandmother’s voice crooning prayers that weren’t written down but lived in bones. She remembered sitting in a wooden wash tub under the sun, bees landing on her knees without fear. She’d giggle and Mama Bee would say…

“They know you sweet, Lula-Bee. They ain’t here to sting. Just to listen.”

The Ribbon

When Violet was born, her grandmother tied a lavender ribbon around her wrist—satin, worn soft from Mama Bee’s sewing basket, stitched with thread dipped in honey and salt. She whispered over it:

“Let her walk this world safe. Let her sweetness stay sweet. Let her roots run deep and her dreams stay open.”

That ribbon moved with Violet as she grew. Around her wrist, then her throat, then hidden beneath dresses. It became a part of her. She never took it off—not even when she bathed. Not even when she cried.

Her Mother, Ruth

Ruth Elanora James was born into Gullah tradition but never embraced it. She called it “backward,” and claimed Christ the way other women clung to their pearls. She married a man from the coast—a quiet fisherman named Thaddeus James, who smelled of brine and tobacco and loved the sea more than land.

Thaddeus died when Violet was five. His boat never came back. No body. No grave. Just the hush of waves and a silence that settled over Ruth like damp linen.

After that, Ruth hardened. She told Violet to stop whispering to bees. To stop drawing circles in the dirt. When Mama Bee spoke in Gullah, Ruth snapped.

“Don’t teach her that.”

“She already knows,” Mama Bee said calmly, “She was born remembering.”

The Death of Mama Bee–1920

When Violet was thirteen, Mama Bee died in her sleep.

She had lit a lavender candle the night before. The next morning, bees were pressed to the windows—hundreds of them, silent and still. Violet found her, hands folded, lips parted slightly like she’d been humming in her last breath.

No funeral songs. No mourning rituals. Ruth refused them.

“She’s gone. Let the dead stay dead.”

But Violet knew better.

That night, she tied the lavender ribbon tight at her throat and whispered her grandmother’s prayer through tears.

The bees came again. This time, they landed on her windowsill. One stayed until dawn.

The Years That Followed

Her home became a hollow shell.

Ruth remarried. A church deacon with mean hands and hard eyes. He didn’t like the way Violet moved. Said she was “too quiet, too dreamy, too soft in the face.” He scolded her for humming. Once slapped the ribbon from her neck and told her…

“That ain’t faith. That’s witch-stuff.”

Violet picked it up. Washed it. Retied it.

And from that day on, she stopped speaking unless she had to.

The dreams never stopped. She’d see Mama Bee in candlelight. Hear bees humming lullabies. Smell salt and honey before rain.

But she said nothing. She learned how to be still.

The Dream–Age 21

On the cusp of her twenty-second birthday, Violet had a dream that split her wide open.

She stood barefoot in a field of black dahlias, her grandmother waiting beneath a crooked cypress, barefoot and young again. Bees curled around her wrists.

“You don’t belong here no more, Lula-Bee,” she said, voice soft as sugar cane snapping, “Go where the light bends strange. Go where sweetness don’t spoil.”

Behind her, the bees formed a doorway.

Violet stepped forward. When she woke, she was crying—but calm.

She packed her ribbon. Her journal. A few coins. No note for Ruth. Just silence.

The Blackline

She boarded a train west with nothing but the hum of the dream guiding her.

In Little Rock, Arkansas, she wandered aimless for two days until she ended up behind a beauty shop, ribbon loose, body tired, breath short.

That’s where a strange woman with a silver eye and a split lip found her.

“You look like a girl who’s been carrying a name too long,” the woman said, “Go on down to The Blackline. They’ll take you in. Tell ‘em Lula-Bee sent you.”

“But my name’s—”

“It’s yours. Don’t mean you gotta wear it.”

And so she went.

Now she sweeps floors and folds linens, moves like smoke through the hallways of the place, and tries not to let anyone see too much.

But the sweetness is waking again.

The ache low in her belly is not fear—it’s longing.

The ribbon around her throat is no longer a shield.

It’s a signal.

And she’s starting to look men in the eye—especially the quiet one with the hands like fire and the eyes that call her by name even when he says nothing at all.

Present Day–1929

The dream begins in stillness.

She is standing barefoot in a warm orchard at twilight. The trees are heavy with peaches and figs, so ripe they split at the seams. The air is thick with bees—but they do not sting. They hum low and golden around her, tracing lazy circles around her thighs, her neck, her mouth.

Her lavender ribbon is tied at her wrist now, not her throat. Loose. Soft. Her skin glows like honey in the light. She looks down and sees that she is not clothed, but not ashamed either. Her body feels like truth—weightless and known.

A breeze brushes her bare shoulders, carrying the scent of cedar smoke and crushed velvet. It makes her ache deep in her belly.

And then she hears it.

A man’s voice—low, velvet-rich, and ancient like the river.

“You’re not a child anymore, Lula-Bee.”

She turns, but the figure in the trees never fully steps forward. He’s shadow and shape, familiar in silence. But she feels no fear. Only knowing.

“You’ve kept the door closed. That was wise. But now it’s blooming.”

She looks down. There is a garden gate in front of her, overgrown with honeysuckle and bramble. Bees cluster at the edges—not guarding, just watching. Waiting.

The ribbon unties itself from her wrist. It floats gently to the gate and wraps itself around the latch. It glows lavender and silver in the dying light.

“When you open it, do it because the soil is soft. Because the sun feels right. Because you’re ready to be picked and not plucked.”

Violet reaches for the gate with trembling fingers.

It opens not with a creak, but with a sigh.

Inside, there’s a bed of wildflowers. A satin sheet. The scent of him.

She doesn’t lie down.

Not yet.

But she steps inside.

She chooses.

When She Wakes

Her thighs are damp. Her heart is full—not with fear, but with clarity.

She presses her fingers to the pulse at her neck, where the ribbon usually sits.

Then she whispers to the empty room…

I’m ready.

Violet sits on the edge of her bed, brushing her fingers over her ribbon. It lies across her lap like a sleeping thing—not tied, not tense, not guarding. She smooths the ends once. Twice. Then lays it beside her, picking up the small notebook she keeps hidden in her drawer.

She writes the dream down slowly, not for memory’s sake—she won’t forget—but as a kind of offering. A way of honoring what she knows now.

The door bloomed. The bees watched. I opened it with my own hand. Not because he asked. Because I was ready.

She signs it with her grandmother’s name for her.

Lula-Bee

Then closes the journal and presses it to her chest.

Her body still feels warm, still humming faintly with lavender and want.

She isn’t rushing.

But she is no longer afraid.

The soft morning light filters through linen curtains, casting a gentle warmth across Violet’s bed. Her journal lies closed beside her, ribbon tucked between the pages like a pressed petal. The room is hushed, safe. She rises, her body humming still from the dream, and makes her way down the hall to the bathing room with a fresh slip tucked under her arm.

The air inside is thick with steam and the soft perfume of rosewater soap. She pours the hot water herself, watches it swirl with a few drops of lavender oil until the scent coils upward like a memory. She undresses slowly, folding each piece of her sleepwear neatly as if in ritual.

When she slips into the bath, the water hugs her like silk. She exhales.

For a while, she just floats—arms spread, belly bare beneath the surface, the ribbon still tied at her throat like a vow she hasn’t quite spoken aloud. Her fingers drift to her lower stomach, gently resting over the ache that now feels familiar. The ache from the dream. From Smoke’s eyes. From her own breath catching in her throat when he waves at her and she waves back.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispers, voice barely above the water, “I want it. I want him.”

She doesn’t mean she’s ready to call him tonight. No.

But soon.

She wants to choose the hour. She wants to be touched when the moon is high and the world is still.

She closes her eyes and imagines his hands, not rough but worshipful—tracing her hips like something sacred. She wonders how it’ll feel, the moment his body finds hers. The weight. The breath. The stretch. She presses her thighs together beneath the water, cheeks warming.

And then the flame of that thought softens, not into shame, but into something brighter. A smile. A knowing.

After the bath, Violet dries herself slowly, like she’s learning herself all over again. The towel is warm against her skin. She wraps it high across her chest, tucks it firm. The mirror is fogged from the heat, but she swipes it with the edge of her hand and looks at herself—really looks. Her cheeks are flushed. Her collarbones glisten. Her skin gleams like poured honey in the morning light. She tilts her head slightly and runs a hand over her belly, then up along her side, pausing at the soft curve of her breast.

I’m a woman.

The words land in her chest like truth.

And for the first time, she smiles at her reflection.

Knock knock

A soft tap at the door.

“Violet?” A voice, warm as peach cobbler, “You decent, baby?”

Violet’s breath hitches, but she smiles again.

“Yes,” she calls, adjusting the towel slightly, “You can come in.”

The door creaks, and Minnie peeks her head around, curls tucked in a cinnamon wrap, skin glowing like golden syrup.

“Just checkin’. You been movin’ like moonlight lately! quiet and sweet. Thought I’d come say good morning.”

She steps in before Violet can reply, her bangles chiming softly as she moves. Minnie pauses behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Both of them. Side by side.

“Mmm,” she hums, eyes traveling Violet’s frame, “You see that? That’s a woman standin’ right there. Don’t matter how soft your voice is, baby. Your body’s speakin’ loud.”

Violet blushes, glancing down.

“I don’t know…I—”

“You don’t need to know,” Minnie interrupts gently, “You feel it, don’t you? That pull? That bloom in your belly when he looks at you?”

Violet nods.

“That’s your fire wakin’ up. Ain’t no shame in it.”

Minnie lifts her hand and tucks a curl behind Violet’s ear. Then she leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Violet’s cheek.

“You beautiful, baby. Own your sexy. Don’t wait for nobody to give you permission. Not even him.”

Violet’s eyes mist, but she doesn’t cry.

She smiles.

Minnie grins and pats her arm.

“Come find me if you want help pickin’ a dress for later. I got one that’s soft as sin.”

And just like that, she’s gone—leaving behind a breeze of gardenia, brown butter, and warmth that lingers in the doorway.

Violet turns back to her reflection.

The fog’s gone now.

And so is her doubt.

The afternoon stretches slow. The house smells faintly of wood polish, cigar smoke, and something sweet baking downstairs. Violet is walking back from the linen room when she hears voices—low, familiar, rough-edged but calm.

The office door is cracked.

She pauses.

Inside, Smoke is standing near Stack, one hand braced on the edge of the desk. His sleeves are rolled up. The muscles in his forearms flex as he gestures toward a map laid out in front of them. He’s focused, but not tense. He looks…at home.

His voice is gravel and syrupy.

“We ain’t runnin’ numbers through Vaughn’s side no more. He can bark, but he don’t bite unless we hand him a throat.”

Stack mutters something in return, sharp like flint. Smoke gives a half-smile.

Violet doesn’t step inside. She just watches—quiet, still, ribbon tied at her throat like a secret. Her eyes soften. Her stomach flutters.

Then…

Smoke turns.

He must feel her. Maybe he always does.

His gaze lands on her and doesn’t flinch.

He gives her a gentle smile—not cocky, not coaxing. Just steady warmth. Then he lifts his hand and gives a lazy two-finger wave, like he already knows what she’s thinking.

She smiles back.

Small. Timid. But she doesn’t look away.

For the first time, she lets herself want.

She just watches.

Watches the strength in his hands.

The set of his jaw.

The way the gold in his eyes glints when he glances up and sees her there.

She feels heat rise in her chest—not embarrassment, but hunger.

Because two nights ago, when the house was asleep and the halls quiet, Smoke had slipped into her room, finding her with her ribbon still tied, her breath held like a secret.

He voiced his hunger. How he felt an ache in his dick to be touched. Freed. He sat in a chair at the foot of her bed and talked to her pussy. Filthy. The heat in his eyes made her melt. All while seated at the edge of the bed, eyes dark and patient, waiting for what she’d do.

“I can…I can help?”

She’d reached for him—shy, trembling, but curious—and he’d groaned the second her fingers wrapped around his dick.

Hot. Heavy. Silken over steel.

Thick enough her hand didn’t close all the way.

He’d whispered her name like a prayer between gasps.

“Violet—sweetheart—don’t stop. Please, baby…don’t stop…I’m so fuckin’ hard…”

She remembered the way his hips stuttered, the way his voice cracked, the way his eyes burned into hers as he spilled over her fingers, slick and hot and desperate.

“Lula Bee…”

She’d stared at her hand after—wet, trembling—and without fully knowing why, she’d lifted her fingers to her lips and tasted him.

Salt. Smoke. Something masculine and faintly bitter.

She didn’t flinch. She liked it.

The memory made her legs tighten now.

She steps just a little closer to the cracked door, eyes still fixed on him. Stack is saying something now, but Smoke’s gaze flicks back toward her like he feels her looking.

She wonders—what would he sound like if she used her mouth next time?

She remembers a moment from the washroom just the day before.

Odessa and another girl, Clarisse, were sitting at the edge of the soaking tub, towels loose around their waists, sharing secrets in the steam.

Odessa’s voice had been sharp as always, but Clarisse’s was dreamy.

“Girl, I sucked that man dry, I swear. Had him speakin’ in tongues. Said I was better than church and whiskey.”

Odessa laughed, “He say that ‘cause you gag too easy. Men love a little drama.”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t know how deep I can go,” Clarisse purred, licking her finger like it was a sin.

Violet hadn’t said a word. Just turned her face away, eyes lowered. But the words had burrowed into her chest like warm breath.

Now, outside the office, her eyes drop to Smoke’s mouth.

His hands.

His belt.

She wonders how he’d taste if she took him slow.

On her knees.

Ribbon still tied.

Eyes locked on his.

Would he moan?

Would he beg?

Would he touch her cheek like he did that night—tender, almost devout.

I want that, Violet thinks, I want him like that again. I want to give him more.

Not because she’s trying to earn something.

Not to be like Clarisse or Odessa.

But because she wants to.

Because the ache in her belly is hers now. Not shame. Not fear.

Desire.

Smoke glances at her one last time. His smile lingers.

Then he says something to Stack and nods once—like he’s filing her away in his chest, for later.

Violet walks away, quiet as ever.

But this time, her thighs are pressed just a little tighter.

And her smile—her secret, private smile—burns like a flame behind her lips.

Some time had gone by, and the kitchen was warm with the scent of rising bread and grease snapping in a cast iron skillet. Violet had only meant to pass through, but she slowed near the long butcher block table where Minnie and a new girl—Tallulah Rae—stood shoulder-to-shoulder, elbows floured, hands deep in dough.

Tallulah Rae was one of the older girls at The Blackline, all curves and carved cheekbones, with a velvet-soft voice that could charm a preacher into backsliding. She wasn’t loud, but when she did speak, her words always dripped with just enough suggestion to make you lean in.

“He kissed me so deep last night, I damn near forgot my own name,” Tallulah spoke with a slow grin. “Right up against the pantry door.”

Minnie laughed, “Chile, if a man ever makes me forget mine, he better be ready to carve it back into me letter by letter.”

The two cracked up, flour flying from Minnie’s hands like holy dust.

Violet paused at the edge of the room, pretending to adjust her basket of towels.

“You ever get so worked up,” Tallulah Rae continued, “you gotta help your own self out? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with knowin’ how to tend your garden before lettin’ somebody else plant seeds.”

“Tend it?” Minnie cackled, “I damn near plowed mine with a cucumber last summer. Coolest thing in the whole house.”

Tallulah whistled low, “A cucumber?”

“Long as my arm, thick as my wrist. Didn’t ask no questions, didn’t make no mess. Just did what needed doin’.”

They burst into more laughter, the kind that rippled up the walls and lingered in the rafters like cinnamon smoke.

Violet felt her cheeks flush hot.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just tucked the image into the ache blooming low in her belly.

A cucumber. Cool. Quiet. Easy.

She slipped out before they noticed her, the air outside bright and blinding after the kitchen’s golden haze. Down by the stable, Smoke was working—sleeves rolled, shirt half-open, hands slick with engine grease as he leaned under the hood of the truck.

Violet froze in the shade of the porch.

She hadn’t meant to stop. She just couldn’t help it.

His muscles pulled tight as he twisted something with a wrench. His brow furrowed, lips parted slightly, jaw flexing. A streak of grease ran across his forearm like a promise.

She watched his hand slide down his stomach to tuck in his shirt—and he paused.

Fingers spread low over the flat of his abdomen. Then they dipped lower.

Just slightly.

Adjusting himself.

Like he knew.

Like he felt her eyes.

And then—he looked up.

Right at her.

No words.

No smile.

Just that golden gaze, heavy and hungry, sliding over her body like a slow drag of whiskey.

Violet’s breath caught.

Her thighs pressed together beneath her dress.

She turned. Walked away. Quickly.

But not in shame.

She was smiling now. Small. Secret.

And as she crossed the porch toward the garden, her fingers brushed the edge of her ribbon.

The garden was quiet, save for the buzz of bees and the warm hum of Aunt Pearl singing low while plucking collards in her apron. Violet stood near the cucumbers, fingers twisting around the vine. She looked back once, no one watching, then gently plucked one of the larger ones and tucked it beneath her arm.

Her cheeks burned. Her heart fluttered.

He’s been so tense. So tight across the jaw. He needs relief. I want to please him…

She didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

But she wanted to learn.

So she grabbed the cucumber, slipped back through the side porch, and made her way inside toward the washroom to rinse it.

That’s when she heard—

“Now what exactly do you think you doin’ with that?”

Cordelia’s voice, sweet and sticky as molasses.

Violet froze.

The cucumber was still under the spigot, her fingers wrapped around it like it had already betrayed her.

She turned slowly.

Cordelia and Peaches stood at the end of the hallway—both barefoot, both dressed in house slips, and both wearing the kind of knowing grins that only came from watching a girl caught mid-sin.

“Don’t play innocent, sugar,” Peaches said, strolling forward, “You don’t even eat cucumbers unless they pickled.”

Violet blushed deep. She tried to tuck it behind her back.

“It’s for…I was just…”

“Just what, baby?” Cordelia purred, tilting her head, “You cleanin’ it up for some salad?”

Peaches laughed, “Mm-hmm. That salad named Smoke, maybe.”

Cordelia’s eyes sparkled, “You plannin’ on practicin’?”

Violet looked down, biting her lip.

Didn’t answer.

“Lord have mercy,” Peaches muttered, grinning, “This girl ain’t just sweet—she curious.”

Cordelia stepped closer, tugging gently on Violet’s wrist.

“Come on, now. Don’t go hidein’ away. We ain’t gonna tell on you…”

“We just wanna help you do it right.” Peaches said.

Violet blinked, unsure.

Peaches raised a brow.

“Unless you wanna go up to his room and choke on it without learnin’ how to breathe first…”

“Let’s go,” Cordelia said, already guiding her by the hand, “We’ll show you. Ain’t no shame in wantin’ to please your man.”

Violet held the cucumber tight, heart racing, unsure whether to laugh or hide.

But she followed them anyway.

Because deep down, she wanted to know.

And these women?

They weren’t judging.

They were initiating.

The door to Cordelia’s room shut behind them with a click.

Curtains drawn.

Sunlight bleeding soft through red silk, casting the room in a low, warm glow.

Violet stood awkwardly, cucumber still in hand, unsure where to put her eyes. Cordelia sank onto the edge of her velvet chaise, crossing her long legs slow and lazy. Peaches flopped beside her with a grin and took the cucumber from Violet’s hand like it was a baton in a relay.

“Now,” Peaches said, holding it up, “This here? It ain’t perfect. But it’ll teach you how not to gag and tear up like a schoolgirl.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes with a smile.

“You’re scarin’ her.”

“I’m bein’ honest.”

Violet fidgeted, “I just…I want to make him feel good. I don’t wanna mess up.”

Cordelia leaned forward, voice softening.

“Baby, if he likes you—and he do—he already loves the way you touch him. But if you wanna learn how to make him forget his own damn name, well…that’s a different lesson.”

Cordelia patted the cushion beside her.

Violet sat.

Peaches held up the cucumber again and started to demonstrate—slow, exaggerated licks, then letting her lips slide down the length with practiced rhythm. Violet watched, transfixed, while Cordelia giggled beside her, cheering Peaches on.

“It ain’t about how deep you go,” she said, “It’s about pressure…pace…and lettin’ him see how much you like it.”

Cordelia smiled, curling her fingers in Violet’s curls, pinning them back softly.

“Men like Smoke…they pay attention. You moan around him just a little, or look up at him while he’s deep in your throat? That man gon’ lose his damn mind.”

Violet swallowed, “Can I try?”

“Hell yes, baby girl,” Peaches said, handing it over, “Take your time.”

Violet leaned in, unsure at first—but she followed the rhythm Peaches showed her. She tried taking it slow. Using her lips. Her tongue. Watching their reactions. Cordelia gently guided her hand lower on the base. Violet continued, testing her gag reflex, receiving pointers from Cordelia and Peaches to go slow. To breathe. To take your time.

“It’s an art, baby! And art deserve to be worshipped! Don’t get all showy with it!” Cordelia said.

Peaches clapped once.

“Look at you!”

Violet laughed, blush rising high on her cheeks.

But it wasn’t shy anymore.

It was excited.

Cordelia nudged her, “Now imagine him under you. Hands in your hair. Sayin’ your name with that low voice of his…”

“Mm,” Peaches grinned, “I’d do a lot more than imagine it if I were you.”

Violet smiled, eyes shining, breathless and flushed.

“Thank you…I think I’m ready now.”

Cordelia kissed her cheek, “You more than ready, sugar. He ain’t gonna know what hit him.”

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is thick with the scent of lily perfume, cigarette smoke, and powdered talc. The door is open just a sliver, enough for light and voices to spill out.

Violet pauses mid-step—linens folded in her arms, breath catching in her throat. She didn’t mean to listen. She should keep walking.

But then she hears her name.

“Violet.”

That syrupy drawl, half-rasp, half-perfume. Odessa.

Inside the room, Odessa Mae Moreau is perched on a velvet stool, one leg crossed over the other. She’s in a silk slip the color of blood oranges, cool and dramatic against her skin. She leans forward to apply candy-red polish to her toes with slow, theatrical strokes, lips pursed in concentration. A small hand fan flicks the air near her ankles, propped on a box of costume jewelry.

Across from her, seated on a tufted settee, is a woman Violet doesn’t know well—Clarisse. Soft eyes, full laugh, hair wrapped in a printed scarf. She isn’t saying much—just small, agreeable sounds every now and then.

“Mhm.”

“Girl.”

“You think so?”

Odessa keeps talking. And talking.

“She floats around this place like a little ghost with honey in her hair. Don’t speak. Don’t sweat. Just watches Smoke like she’s praying with her thighs.”

Clarisse hums, neutral.

“I mean, she’s pretty. But sweet don’t last in a place like this. That kinda softness? Men ruin it, then get bored.”

Odessa finishes her last toe and leans back with a satisfied sigh, fanning harder.

“She ain’t built for a man like Smoke. That’s a man who needs a woman. Not a little blossom scared of her own hips.”

“Mhm.” Clarisse nodded.

“Let her have her pretty ribbon and candle eyes. Ain’t no real heat under all that hush.”

Clarisse doesn’t answer this time.

Odessa doesn’t care. She’s not talking for agreement—she’s talking to hear herself echo.

“You watch. He’ll get tired of petting that thing. Men like him always come back to fire. They always come back to me.”

She doesn’t need to hear more.

Violet steps back silently, smooth as vapor, her slippers barely whispering against the wood. She walks down the hallway with her linens pressed against her chest and a smile tugging at her lips—not shy, not sweet. Satisfied.

Because the truth is, Odessa doesn’t sound bored.

She sounds afraid.

And Violet?

She’s never felt more like a woman at that moment.

She walks away holding that moment like a secret—Odessa’s voice dripping with sharp perfume, her confidence cracking at the edges. And Smoke, somewhere behind a door, smiling at her.

Violet will keep that smile.

She’ll keep the ache in her belly.

And she’ll keep that truth Odessa can’t seem to swallow.

That the softness she carries is not weakness. It’s what men burn for.

And when Violet does open the door one night and let Smoke into her bed?

She won’t be giving him what Odessa thinks he wants.

She’ll be giving him what he’s already been falling into since the first time she looked at him and didn’t flinch.

The linens in her arms are soft, still warm from the press. She lays them down gently, smoothing the corners with instinct more than thought. The scent of cotton and lavender clings to her wrists. The house is quiet again. The voices from the office have faded into floorboards and dust. But his smile lingers, warm against her skin like sunlight through lace.

She sits at the edge of her bed. The ribbon still tied at her throat—not tight, but certain. Her palms rest in her lap, but her fingers twitch. A hush settles in her chest.

She exhales slowly, “I’m ready.”

Not just for touch. Not just for Smoke.

Ready to choose this body. This bloom. This ache.

Her fingers trail to her lower belly. She presses softly—where the heat lives now, a tender pulse low in her womb, not sharp or frightening, but full. A hum waiting to be sung. She remembers what her grandmother once told her, when she was barely old enough to understand the weight of the words.

“That part of you? That sweetness below your navel? It ain’t for shame or barter. It’s for blooming, when the season’s right. You’ll know, child. It’ll ache, and you’ll still say yes.”

Tears gather behind her eyes.

She blinks them back, but one spills down her cheek anyway. She lets it fall.

Then reaches for the small thing Smoke left her. h

His lighter.

Silver, worn. A dent at the edge where it must’ve been dropped. She turns it over in her palm—the weight of it grounding. Masculine. Familiar. The scent of his fingers still clings to it—cigarettes, spice, and the faintest edge of sweat and cedar.

She flicks it open.

The flame catches with a soft chhhk.

Orange and gold flickers dance, reflecting in her eyes.

She stares into it—not to burn, but to remember.

To claim something.

To her, the lighter is more than Smoke.

It’s heat without force. Fire without fear.

It’s the promise that something can spark and not destroy. That she can be touched and not devoured.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispers, “Not of this.”

She closes the lighter slowly, presses it to her heart.

Then lies back against the bed, ribbon at her throat, one hand still resting over her lower belly where the ache has grown sweet.

She closes her eyes and breathes.

Outskirts of Crossett – Abandoned freight yard, after dusk

The air was thick with swamp heat and the stink of rusted metal. Smoke crouched low beside Clyde behind a stack of crates, eyes narrowed on the loading dock across the yard. Moonlight sliced through the trees in slivers, but the rest was cloaked in shadow. Just the way they liked it.

“They been runnin’ numbers through here every Thursday,” Clyde whispered, wiping sweat from his brow, “But this time…they came with more muscle.”

“Felix’s?” Smoke asked.

“Two of ‘em. Recognized the tall one. Quiet. Always quiet. Mean eyes.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Just reached for the revolver holstered at his side and checked it without looking.

Across the yard, headlights flashed once—a signal. Four men emerged from a black truck, two carrying crates, the other two armed and watchful.

“That’s them,” Clyde said, breath tightening, “The weight ain’t in what they carry—it’s what they plan to move next.”

Smoke’s voice was low, clipped.

“They ain’t walkin’ out if they see us.”

“What’s the call?”

“Wait for the handoff.”

The handoff never came.

Because one of the guards turned too soon—eyes catching the glint of steel in Clyde’s belt.

He shouted.

Gunfire lit the night.

Smoke moved like water on fire.

Fast. Precise. Violent.

He shot the first one through the throat, caught the second’s shoulder and charged before the man hit the ground. Clyde ducked behind a support beam, firing into the chaos, taking one in the leg.

Another came at Smoke with a blade.

Too close.

Too fast.

Smoke took it in the side—but twisted, elbowed the man’s jaw hard enough to hear the crack—then stabbed him with his own knife. The blade sunk in smooth, fast, like the silence that followed.

Only one man crawled away—blood trailing behind him, breath rattling.

Smoke walked up slow.

Put a boot on his back.

“Tell Felix…” He leaned close, voice like gravel wrapped in heat, “If he sends more dogs, I’ll send fire.”

He knelt down, pressed the barrel of his gun to the man’s hand—and pulled the trigger.

The man screamed.

“And tell him—Booker died a traitor’s death.”

Smoke stood.

Clyde limped over, blood staining his pant leg.

“We need to get gone.”

Smoke gave one last look at the yard.

“Burn it.”

Clyde and Smoke disappeared into the night fast with tires screeching. Smoke clutched his side as he drove while Clyde created a makeshift tourniquet to stop the overflow of blood.

They made it back to The Blackline.

No need to use the secret knock or whisper the password.

The front door creaked open.

No announcement.

No warning.

Just the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and blood curling into the velvet hush of the main hall.

Smoke stepped in—shirt torn at the ribs, dark with dried blood. One side of his waist glistened faint where the blade had kissed him. His knuckles were raw, one brow split and crusted, a smear of someone else’s blood across his cheek.

But his eyes?

Clear. Cold. Focused.

Peaches was at the bar when he walked through.

She started to speak, but froze mid-sentence. Her lips parted.

Then she just stepped aside.

“He’s in the office,” she whispered.

Smoke didn’t nod.

Didn’t slow.

Just walked.

Boots heavy on the hardwood, tracking dust and blood across the polished grain.

Stack was pouring whiskey when the door opened. He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“It didn’t go quiet, did it?”

Smoke closed the door behind him, dropped into the armchair with a grunt. He peeled his ruined shirt up, checked the blade graze at his side—flesh split but shallow.

“Wasn’t meant to be quiet,” he said, “They spotted us. Drew first.”

Stack slid him the glass.

“All of ‘em down?”

“One crawled off with a message.”

“Good.”

He watched his brother for a long moment.

“You get cut?”

Smoke grumbled, “Nicked. Took care of it.”

“And Booker?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“No sign of him. Felix must be keepin’ him locked up so I won’t find him and kill him myslef. Shoulda’ finished the job.”

The silence stretched.

Stack leaned back in his chair, “You think Felix sent ‘em to test us? Them goons?”

“I think he sent ‘em hopin’ we’d be too cautious to shoot first.”

“He forgot who the hell we are.” Stack said.

Smoke raised the glass to his lips.

“Then let’s remind him.”

The whiskey burned down Smoke’s throat, but it didn’t touch the heat in his blood. Stack lit a cigar, leaned back, and watched him like you’d watch a live wire.

“We still goin’ to Chicago?” Smoke asked.

Stack exhaled smoke through his nose, slow.

“That was the plan.”

“Still the plan?” Smoke pressed.

Stack tapped ash into the tray, gave a single nod.

“Still the plan. But the shipment’s delayed. That friend of Vincenzo’s? Got held up in Milwaukee. Might not be in the city ‘til week’s end.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

“That puts us at what—two days before Velvet and Vice?”

“If that.”

“Too damn close,” Smoke stood abruptly, pushing back from the desk with a scrape of wood, “We need more weapons. Not less. Felix is heatin’ up, Stack. And we still don’t know what that woman is.”

His voice dropped low—but it was the kind of low that trembled with fury.

“She ain’t just some lookout.”

“No, she ain’t,” Stack agreed, quiet.

“And Mercy?” Smoke asked, eyes narrowed, “She got anything else?”

Stack shook his head once.

“Said she’s still diggin’. Nothin’ solid yet.”

Smoke slammed the heel of his palm against the desk.

“Dammit.” He growled with a snarl.

He snatched the half-empty glass beside him and hurled it against the wall. It shattered—crystal shrapnel raining like teeth.

The sound echoed.

Stack didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Just waited.

Then said, calm as ever, “You get like this every time it’s someone we can’t figure. You remember that? Ain’t the first shadow we had to drag into the light.”

Smoke braced both hands on the desk, his breath thick through his nose.

“Yeah. But this one? She ain’t movin’ like a shadow. She movin’ like a storm.”

Stack stood, crossed to his brother and put a firm hand on Smoke’s shoulder.

“Then we be the lightning rod. Not the fire.”

Meanwhile, Odessa lingered by the corner, half-shrouded in the shadows of the hallway. She’d heard the crash. The bite in Smoke’s voice. The way Stack was the only thing keeping the room from splintering open. She smoothed her hands over her sides and knocked, once.

“What?”

Stack opened the door, brows tight. The edge of tension clung to his jawline, though he masked it well.

Odessa blinked.

Her voice was soft.

“Everything alright?”

Stack’s eyes dragged over her—down and back up, slow.

“Just business.”

“Sounded more like war.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He was still inside, gathering breath.

Odessa’s gaze cut toward him and then back to Stack.

“If y’all need anything…” she said gently, “I’m around.”

Stack gave her a faint, sharp nod.

“Appreciate it.”

He shut the door again without another word.

The hallway outside Stack’s office was dim, lit only by a flickering wall sconce and the low amber light bleeding out from beneath the office door. Odessa stood leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed beneath her bust, leg cocked just slightly—like she’d been waiting.

And she had.

Smoke stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him, jaw tight, a fresh streak of blood soaking through the wrap beneath his shirt. He winced as he adjusted the fabric around his side, still tender from the blade earlier that night.

She watched him like a cat watches something small and wounded.

“Y’bleedin’,” Odessa said finally, voice sweet but sharp. Her gaze dragged down his chest, lingered at the cut, “Didn’t think anything could get close enough to touch you.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He reached into his coat pocket, tugging out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. His fingers, still stained faintly red, shook just enough to be noticed. He pulled one out, placed it between his lips.

Fumbled the matches.

Odessa was already beside him.

She struck a match with ease and brought it to his cigarette, fingers brushing his chin deliberately, holding the flame a second too long.

“There,” she said, voice like honey, “Better?”

Smoke exhaled smoke through his nose, unimpressed, “Appreciate it.”

He made to move past her.

Odessa blocked his path. Her perfume was thick—too thick—and her eyes gleamed with something more than flirtation now.

“You don’t even look at me,” she said, voice no longer soft, “All that heat you carry—yet you keep it for her.”

Smoke raised a brow.

“This ‘bout Violet?” he said slowly.

Odessa’s jaw clenched, “Yeah. Violet. That little whisper of a girl. Quiet. Soft. Barely says a word unless you drag it outta her. She walks around here in your damn shirt and suddenly she’s got your eyes, your hands, your everything.”

He said nothing, his smoke curling upward like a slow, rising ghost between them.

Odessa’s voice sharpened, “I been here. I been lookin’ at you since the day I walked through them doors, Smoke. You ever ask yourself what makes her so special? What she got that I don’t?”

Smoke looked her over—not in desire, but in cold assessment. His voice was calm, low.

“She kind,” he said, “Don’t push for what ain’t hers. She listens. Moves gentle through a room without makin’ it about her. Got softness you can feel across the damn floor. Don’t gotta perform, don’t gotta force it.”

He stepped forward. Odessa didn’t back away, but her eyes flickered.

“And when she look at me,” he said, voice quieter now, roughened with truth, “it’s like she see past all this— past the money, the blood, the name. She see me. And I ain’t lettin’ go of that.”

Odessa’s throat bobbed. For a second, her face cracked—not just with jealousy, but hurt. Then she snapped her jaw shut, huffed, and turned on her heel.

“You’ll see,” she muttered, heels clicking hard as she stormed down the hall, “Girls like that don’t last in a place like this.”

Smoke stood still for a beat, watching her go.

Then he brought the cigarette back to his lips and exhaled.

“Don’t need her to last,” he spoke to himself, “Just need her to stay mine.”

Smoke sat alone in his office, the door half-closed, light from the desk lamp casting a warm gold over the wood grain and worn papers. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the cotton pushed back as he studied the fresh cut across his side — a shallow knife wound, but clean. Angry red beneath drying blood. He exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulder, testing it.

The office was quiet save for the distant murmur of laughter and music below. His jaw clenched as he reached for a bottle of whiskey, not to drink — just to press the cool glass briefly to the ache in his ribs.

A soft knock barely registered.

Then came the turn of the doorknob.

Smoke glanced up, eyes flicking toward the figure slipping in.

It was Violet.

She peeked through, hesitating, her fingers tight around the edge of the door as if she might lose nerve and turn back. She hadn’t seen him since before the stakeout, and she’d been aching with it. Ache in her chest. Ache between her thighs. Ache in the quiet moments when his absence felt like missing breath.

When she saw his bare skin, the line of the wound, she stilled.

His gaze found hers and softened. That weight in his shoulders didn’t ease—but his eyes did.

“Hey,” she whispered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She leaned back against it for a second, hands clasped in front of her, uncertain, “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You ain’t botherin’ me,” he said low, voice rough from smoke and strain, “You came lookin’ for me?”

Violet nodded, “Been…missing you.”

Smoke smiled softly, “missed you too, baby. Sorry I been tied up,” Smoke drags a hand down his face.

Violet fidgets, but then she slowly drags her eyes up to meet his again, with confidence.

“How much you miss me?” She spoke with the faintest voice.

He let the silence answer that before rising slowly from the desk. She could see now how stiffly he moved, the way his muscles bunched as he approached. His shirt hung open, and the light hit the sweat-slick edge of his chest, the trail of hair down his stomach, the faint bruising near the bandage. When he got close, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers—slow, careful, like an apology he didn’t have the words for.

She kissed him back, hands slipping up to his chest, “Are you okay?”

His brows twitched faintly. He paused, staring at her mouth.

“No,” he said honestly, “Not really.”

Violet’s breath hitched.

“Business is goin’ to shit,” he added, “Things movin’ too fast. Too many players. And I ain’t got what I need to hold the line.” He pulled back just slightly, “But that ain’t your worry.”

Her hand ghosted near his ribs, “Is that from tonight?”

Smoke didn’t answer. He looked away, then gently took her hand and kissed her fingers. Without speaking, he led her to the desk and lifted her—easy, steady, like his body hadn’t just been cut open, setting her gently on the polished surface.

She gasped just a little at the suddenness of it, her thighs spreading instinctively as she settled. Smoke dropped down into his chair, eyes level with her knees, then drifting up slowly. His palms settled on the outside of her thighs. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world that didn’t need fixing.

Violet swallowed hard, her fingers twisting into his open shirt.

Smoke leaned in, resting his forehead against her sternum. Her hands came up and stroked over his hair, brushing the nape of his neck.

“Just needed to see you,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” she said softly, “You’ve got me.”

His breath slowed as her touch steadied him.

“I know,” he said, voice thick, “That’s the only thing keepin’ me from goin’ off the edge.”

The office was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the desk lamp behind him. Smoke sat back in his chair, sleeves rolled, collar loose, the weight of the day heavy in his shoulders. The bourbon glass beside him had gone untouched. His eyes weren’t on the work splayed out on his desk anymore—they were on her.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Not at first.

It was a comfortable silence between them. Tender touches. Soft caresses. She was still perched right on the edge of his desk, legs swinging just slightly, her soft thighs brushing the wood. The hem of her ivory slip dress flirted with the tops of her knees, and her ribbon—always her ribbon—was tied snug at her throat, catching the lamplight like a whispered secret. Her curls were wild tonight, haloing her face with shadow and moonshine.

Smoke reached out, slow, his fingers brushing the inside of her knee. Her breath hitched. That tiny sound—just for him—made his jaw flex.

“Come here, baby.”

Violet slipped off the desk and into his lap like silk slipping off a shoulder. Her knees bent and thighs opened as she straddled him, bare legs bracketing his hips, her body fitting into his like honey poured over warm bread. Her hands cupped his face, tentative at first, thumbs brushing the line of his jaw. He leaned in, letting her.

Their lips met—soft, searching, sensual.

Then again, deeper. His hand curved up the back of her neck, cradling her, angling her mouth just right so he could kiss her proper. He tasted the sweetness on her tongue, the breath she stole in between, and the way she gave it all back like she needed it. Smoke let out a low sound against her lips, something almost like a groan. His hands drifted down, slow, possessive, from her waist to the swell of her backside. He squeezed, just enough to make her gasp, and kissed her through it.

She rocked once against him. Just once. His dick already hard from the moment she stepped in the room, strained beneath his slacks, thick and aching. Violet shifted, and her hand slid down between them, small fingers brushing his thigh. Smoke pulled back just enough to watch her.

Then—there it was.

She reached down and cupped him through the fabric. The pressure made him grunt, hips twitching up instinctively.

“Baby,” he breathed, grabbing her wrist gently, “You ain’t gotta do that. Not unless you want to.”

Violet’s eyes lifted to his. Wide. Warm. A little scared—but glowing with intent.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, “I want to.”

Smoke studied her—really studied her. That ribbon. That mouth. That soft, trembling girl in his lap. His voice dropped.

“You sure?”

Violet nodded. Then, quietly, her fingers tracing him again, she said, “I remember…that night. How you came to me with it hard. I remember how it looked. How it felt.” Her lashes fluttered, “I want to take care of you.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. He leaned forward, kissed her slow again, hand tangled in her curls. Violet continued to grip him through his slacks. The pulse in her wrist fluttered with nervous thrill.

“You sayin’ that with that little voice…” he growled against her mouth, plush lips feather soft, “Gon’ make me lose my mind.”

Her hand stayed where it was, gently palming him, feeling how thick he was, how warm. He exhaled through his nose, heavy, one hand gripping her thigh, the other cupping the back of her head.

“You touchin’ me like that…gon’ make me do things I can’t take back, baby girl.”

“…I want you to,” she whispered.

He looked up at her like a man at his breaking point.

And then he kissed her again—hotter, deeper, his tongue teasing hers, his hands locked around her hips as she moved just barely in his lap. That desk, that lamp, that tally book—they were forgotten. All Smoke could see, all he could feel, was the soft, willing weight of her on him, and the promise in her trembling hands.

Smoke was breathing harder now. Violet still straddled his lap, her small hand cupping him through the fine wool of his slacks. The weight of her, the heat of her breath, the look in her eyes—it was all unraveling him by the second.

Then she shifted.

Without breaking eye contact, Violet slid off his lap. Down to her knees. Slow. Deliberate. Her hands braced against his thighs as she settled on the floor in front of him.

Smoke’s breath caught in his chest.

“Baby girl…” His voice was thick, warning, wanting.

Violet looked up at him from between his legs, those doe eyes soft but full of something new—hunger, need, maybe even power.Her hand stroked him again, firmer this time. She dragged her palm up the long length of him, watching his jaw clench.

“I want to give more,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned back in his chair like it took everything in him not to reach for her.

“Speak it, Violet,” he said roughly, “Ain’t no shame in wanting. Tell me.”

She hesitated for only a breath.

“Please…I want to put my mouth on you.”

The words didn’t tremble—they glowed.

Something primal flickered in Smoke’s eyes. He nodded once, slow, barely.

“Go on then, baby. Take what you want.”

With trembling fingers, Violet undid his belt, unfastened his slacks. His dick sprang free, thick, flushed dark, already weeping for her. She stared at it like she remembered it from dreams—remembered the weight of it against her thigh, the way it had pressed into her belly when he kissed her hard.

She wrapped her hand around him again, tighter this time, watching his stomach tense. Then she lowered her mouth, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of arousal at the tip. Smoke cursed under his breath, one hand gripping the armrest, the other curling into a fist on the desk.

Violet kissed along the length of him first—soft, wet, delicate. Then her lips parted wider, and she took him in, slow and deep, her mouth tight and warm around him.

“Shit…” Smoke gritted, hips rocking just slightly as her lips slid down, then back up, leaving a wet sheen along his shaft. She found a rhythm, delicate and filthy—stroking what her mouth couldn’t take, tongue swirling around the crown. She moaned softly against him, and the vibration made his whole body jerk.

Smoke looked down, watching her. Her cheeks hollowing. Her fingers digging into his thighs for balance. The ribbon at her throat still perfectly tied as she sucked him like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

“Just like that,” he growled, “Fuck, Violet…you takin’ it so pretty…”

She blinked up at him, tears starting to touch the corners of her lashes from the effort, and he nearly lost it then and there. He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, eyes locked on hers.

“You keep goin’ like that, sugar…I’m gon’ fill that pretty little mouth.”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t break her stare.

And Smoke—tight-jawed, wild-eyed, shaking from the restraint—could only hold on and let her ruin him slow.

Smoke’s breathing turned ragged, sharp bursts pushing through gritted teeth as Violet worked him. Her mouth, her hand, the soft sound of her lips sliding wet over his length—it was all too much. Her tongue slick with saliva. Her tiny gasps whenever his tip jumped as she licked. The way those brown eyes would blink up at him all innocent and sweet while doing something so sinful.

Smoke had to grip the arms of his chair.

“Goddamn, girl…”

His head fell back against the chair, muscles taut like wire beneath his shirt. She had him on the edge—closer than she realized, or maybe she did know. Maybe that was the point. Her fingers squeezed just right at the base, her tongue teasing the underside with practiced, instinctive grace. When she moaned again around him, a filthy little hum of approval, it was over.

Smoke’s hand shot out, grabbing the back of her head—not to force, but to hold. His hips jerked, thick dick pulsing as he came, hot and heavy, into her mouth.

“Fuck, Violet—just like that—take it—take all of it.”

She did.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She swallowed everything, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment like she could feel it inside her, like it warmed her.

He watched her the whole time, dazed, undone, his body slowly easing back into the chair as his climax faded. She licked him clean, soft and unhurried, like she wanted to savor him. Then she wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him. Still on her knees. Still glowing with that strange mix of innocence and filth that drove him mad.

Smoke reached down and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her damp bottom lip.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gravel and heat.

She nodded, “Mmhm.”

“You sure?” he pressed, softer now.

Violet leaned into his touch, her ribboned throat still bare to him, her lips kiss-bruised and glistening.

“I wanted to,” she whispered, “I like it when you cum for me.”

That tore something open in him.

Smoke stood abruptly, pulling her up off the floor like she weighed nothing. He sat her back on the desk, cupping the back of her head as he kissed her. Deep, slow, claiming. Like he didn’t care that her mouth had just swallowed every drop of him.

Because he didn’t.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

She lifted her hips, and he slid the silk up and over, revealing bare thighs, soft skin he already knew like the lines on his own palm. He pressed a kiss there—right above her knee—then again, higher. His hands gripped her hips.

When he looked up at her, she was already flushed. Already wanting.

“Spread for me, baby,” he said, kneeling between her legs.

Violet obeyed—shy but open, knees falling wide apart as she planted her hands behind her on the desk for balance.

Smoke exhaled softly. Hungry.

“There she is,” he whispered, “Look at this little pussy. Already glistenin’. You been sittin’ up here waitin’ for my mouth, huh?”

She whimpered.

“I ain’t rushin’ this,” he said, kissing the inside of her thigh, “Not after the way you sucked my damn dick.”

Her breath hitched.

“That mouth was made to ruin me. But this—” He kissed higher, “this was made for tongue…my lips…this dick…you like knowing that, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“How much you like it?”

“So much…please, Smoke…”

He dipped his head and licked her slow, a long, flat stroke that made her cry out softly, hips twitching.

Smoke chuckled into her skin.

“Yeah, baby…that’s what I like. Let her speak to me.”

He took his time. No teasing. No playing. Just worship. His tongue moved with purpose—slow circles, deep licks, careful pressure. He sucked her clit gently into his mouth, then backed off, then returned, never frantic, never greedy.

Only sure.

Only hers.

Violet’s head fell back.

“Oh my God…Smoke—”

“That’s it. Tell me.”

She gasped, fingers curling around the edge of the desk. “You feel so good…I swear I still feel your tongue hours after.”

That made him growl—low and possessive.

“You do?” he asked, licking her again, deeper, “You walkin’ ‘round all day drippin’, still feelin’ me up in here?”

She nodded, breathless, “Yes—God, yes—like I’m still open for you…”

He sucked her again, this time with more pressure.

“You taste like heaven when you beg,” he spoke, his voice thick with hunger, “So pretty and swollen…all this for me.”

She sobbed, breath catching.

“Please,” she whispered, “Please make me cum, sir.”

Smoke groaned and wrapped his arms beneath her thighs, holding her in place as his mouth devoured her—tongue working her clit in tight circles, lips sucking slow, his name tumbling from her mouth with every gasp.

“Elijah…Elijah…Elijah…”

“You gonna give it to me?” he whispered, “Let her flood my fuckin’ mouth?”

“Y-Yes—yes, I’m—Smoke—”

“Cum, baby. Let me taste what you saved for me.”

She came with a sharp cry, body shuddering against the desk, thighs locked around his shoulders. Smoke stayed there, letting her ride his mouth through the aftershocks—licking her slow and sweet, soft groans humming against her skin.

When he finally pulled back, lips wet, he looked up at her with a gaze that burned low and bright.

“You feel her now?” he whispered, kissing her thigh, “You’ll still feel her tomorrow.”

Violet trembled, voice shaking, “I never forget.”

Violet was still gasping softly, her thighs trembling where Smoke had left them parted on the edge of his desk. Her skin glowed under the warm office light, her mouth open slightly, hair wild around her face.

Smoke exhaled, still kneeling, chest rising with each breath, lips slick from her, jaw rough with stubble. He hadn’t moved to stand yet.

Didn’t need to.

He liked being there—beneath her. For her.

But Violet reached for him, fingers trembling slightly, and curled them under his jaw.

“Come here,” she whispered.

He let her guide him, rising slowly from his knees, towering over her again, his hands on either side of the desk, bracketing her body. His mouth hovered just above hers, his breath warm, tasting of her.

“Still got you all over my face.”

“I know,” she whispered, “I want to taste me on you.”

That lit something in him.

Before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed him.

Soft. Deep. Needy.

Their mouths met with slow fire, her lips parting beneath his, tongue slipping into his mouth, tasting what he gave her. She moaned, low in her throat, as she kissed him harder, pulling him closer, nails pressing into his arms where he held the desk.

Smoke groaned against her mouth, his tongue claiming hers, hand rising to the back of her neck to steady her.

She kissed like she wanted to melt into him.

Like she’d never get full.

When they finally broke apart, panting, lips swollen and wet, Smoke stared down at her, dark eyes searching.

“You like how you taste on my mouth, baby?” he rasped.

She nodded, flushed and dizzy, “You make me taste better.”

He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then just below her ear.

“You kiss me like you want me inside you already,” he whispered.

Her whole body shivered at that.

“Maybe I do,” she said quietly.

Smoke pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. What he saw there—the trust, the fire, the surrender—it nearly broke him in the best way.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he said, “You kissin’ me like you proud of what I just did to you.”

“I am,” she whispered, “You made me feel beautiful.”

He smiled—slow, crooked, dark with promise.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Violet’s breath caught.

He smirked, devil-sweet, brushing his nose along hers.

“Now,” he added, tucking himself back in and adjusting his slacks, “you sittin’ pretty up on my desk like that—lookin’ like somethin’ I dreamed—I suggest you stay right there ‘til I get a rag and make sure you good.”

She smiled, small and warm, legs swinging again, “Yes, sir.”

Smoke paused mid-step.

Then turned back, grabbed her chin with two fingers, and kissed her again—messy this time. Possessive.

“Don’t say it like that unless you mean it, baby girl,” he warned, “That sir gon’ get you fucked right here, right now.”

Her cheeks flushed. But her eyes held.

“I mean it.”

Smoke groaned low in his throat.

And just like that—he knew he was hers.

Smoke returned with a warm, damp cloth and a towel slung over his shoulder. He moved slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving her. Violet still sat on his desk, quiet now, hands curled in her lap like she wasn’t sure what came next.

He touched her knee first—gentle.

“Lay back for me, sugar.”

She did, her curls spilling across the polished wood. Smoke knelt slightly, easing her thighs apart with both hands, pressing reverent kisses to the soft skin there before tending to her.

He cleaned her with care.

No rush. No shame. Just slow, quiet devotion. The kind that came from a man raised by women who taught him to respect softness without ever fearing it. When he was done, he dried her gently and helped her sit up again.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

Violet nodded, biting her lip, “Did I do okay?”

Smoke huffed a small laugh, leaning forward until his mouth brushed her ear.

“You did so fuckin’ good, baby. Had me sittin’ there starin’ like a fool, tryin’ not to beg.”

She giggled—soft, shy.

Then her arms circled his shoulders, and he gathered her close, hands splayed on the small of her back, mouth pressing to the hollow of her throat just above the ribbon. They stayed like that for a beat. Maybe two. Breathing each other in.

Then—

A sound.

Barely audible.

The creak of a floorboard outside the office.

Smoke stiffened instantly.

He turned toward the door just as it opened.

Stack.

The light from the hallway caught his brother’s face just right—and that was all it took.

Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he saw it.

In Stack’s eyes. That glassy flash of cold, coiled readiness. Something was off. Something was coming.

They didn’t need words.

Smoke stood slowly, stepping between Violet and the door with a protective instinct that didn’t need thinking. His body shifted—loose but lethal, every inch of him now alert beneath his still-rolled sleeves and open collar.

Stack just nodded once. Tight. Barely.

That was enough.

Smoke turned back to Violet, cupping her cheek, the kiss he gave her now softer than all the ones before.

“I gotta go,” he said quietly.

Her brows drew together, worry blooming.

“Smoke?”

“I’ll be back, baby,” He kissed her again. “You stay right here, alright? Don’t open this door for nobody ‘less it’s me or Stack.”

Violet nodded, gripping the edge of the desk like it might anchor her.

Smoke gave her one last look—torn between wanting to shield her and needing to move.

Then he turned to Stack.

And whatever softness had been in him seconds ago burned clean away.

Mercy returned just before midnight.

She didn’t come dressed in lace or veils this time—just a long coat, boots, and a quiet tension clinging to her like fog. Her usual silk gloves were gone. Her rings were gone too. She looked like someone preparing for war, or a funeral.

Smoke opened the office door before she knocked.

Stack was already pouring a drink.

“I got somethin’,” she said, stepping inside.

“Booker?” Stack asked.

“Gone,” she said flatly, “Real gone. No funeral. No whispers. Just…vanished.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed.

“And the woman?”

Mercy paused. Took the glass from Stack and drank before answering.

“Séraphine,” she said, “That’s her name. Least, that’s the one I’ve heard before.”

She set the glass down.

“I didn’t meet her myself. But someone close to me did.”

She pulled a folded letter from her coat pocket. The edges were frayed. The handwriting inside was tight, frantic.

“My oldest girl—Ree. She ran with me before I ever opened Swansong. Back when I was still dancin’. She got caught up with a man in Plaquemine Parish—rich, mean, and fascinated with the dead.”

“A rootworker?” Smoke asked.

“No,” Mercy said, “Worse. A collector. Had bones in glass cases. Women’s hair tied in braids hung over his desk. Ree said he brought home a woman one night who wasn’t like the others.”

She tapped the letter.

“Said the woman didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just sat in front of a mirror and talked to it like it talked back.”

“Séraphine?” Stack asked.

“I believe so.”

Mercy leaned forward.

Her voice dropped low.

“She said one night, the whole damn house caught fire. No lanterns. No storm. Just lit from the inside. The man burned alive. So did Ree’s cousin. But that woman?”

Mercy’s eyes met Smoke’s.

“She walked out the front door. Didn’t even smell of smoke.”

A long pause.

Then—

“Ree ain’t been right since. Can’t speak above a whisper. Can’t sleep if there’s a mirror in the room.”

“So what is she?” Stack asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Mercy’s voice didn’t waver.

“She’s old. She’s wrong. And she don’t bleed easy.”

“You still think she’s mortal?” Smoke asked.

“I think she was,” Mercy said, “A long time ago.”

She stood.

“You boys need to stop thinkin’ like this is a turf war.”

“What is it then?” Stack asked.

Mercy looked between them both.

“It’s a haunting. You just ain’t dead yet.”

A sugarcane field just past the riverbend. Dusk.

Booker was already broken when Felix brought him out there.

The finger was gone—clean slice, done by Smoke with surgical grace—but it wasn’t the bleeding that made him shake.

It was the knowing.

That whatever chance he had left…wasn’t standing in front of him.

It was walking behind him.

Barefoot. Silent. Wearing black.

Séraphine.

Felix didn’t say much.

Just lit a cigarette with calm hands and said,

“You should’ve stayed loyal, Booker. You gave us up.”

Booker dropped to his knees in the dirt, voice trembling, face slick with sweat and desperation.

“I swear I ain’t mean no harm. I didn’t know the crate was marked, I didn’t know they was gonna come after me—”

Felix looked past him, toward Séraphine.

And nodded once.

That was all.

She stepped forward.

No words. No threats.

Just the soft drag of her veil brushing against cane leaves.

Booker scrambled back, crab-crawling in the dirt.

“Wait—wait, please—who the hell even is she?!”

Séraphine didn’t answer.

She crouched near him.

Laid one hand gently against his cheek.

And Booker started to scream.

He saw it before it touched him.

Rats. Dozens. Hundreds. Not real—but they crawled up his thighs, down his spine, into his mouth. Their squealing filled his ears. His own breath vanished. Every sound warped and slowed. He was suffocating on a memory that wasn’t his—but felt real enough to choke on.

Then his mother’s voice.

Calling him home.

But she’d been dead twenty years.

He clawed at his eyes and fell to his side.

Convulsed.

His voice cracked from shouting names no one knew.

Séraphine stood over him, her face calm as glass, and whispered something in Creole no one else understood.

Booker’s heart gave out in silence.

Mouth open.

Eyes wide.

Still trying to crawl out of whatever illusion she had poured into his head.

Felix took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the dirt.

“Have someone bury him deep. Salt the earth.”

He turned to Séraphine, who was brushing off her hands.

“What’d he see?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled.

“Enough.”

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#amazing

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