Page 11 of Make Me Your Hitta

As I stomped away, I heard his quiet reply: “I know more than you think, Xenobia. And I care more than you realize.”

I froze on the other side of the dining room wall, my heart pounding.What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I stormed into my art studio, slamming the door behind me. The smell of turpentine and oil paints hit me like a wave, familiar and comforting. I grabbed a fresh canvas, slapping it onto the easel more forcefully than necessary.

My hands shook as I squeezed paint onto my palette—maroon, black, and deep purple—colors I associated with rage and frustration. I began painting, not knowing what I was creating. It didn’t matter. I just needed to get my feelings out of me and onto the canvas.

“Fuck Adonis,” I muttered, jabbing my brush at the canvas. “Fuck this whole messed-up family.”

As I painted, the tension in my body slowly lightened. The world narrowed to just me, the brush, and the canvas. No expectations. No danger. No infuriatingly observant bodyguard. I lost track of time, letting the painting consume me. Gradually, a figure emerged from the chaos—a black couple, their faces obscured, arms reaching toward one another but just out of reach. I was so absorbed I didn’t hear the door open.

“Interesting piece.” Adonis’s deep voice startled me. I whirled around with my paintbrush brandished like a weapon.

“Jesus, Adonis. Don’t you know how to fucking knock?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I did. Twice. You were…. preoccupied.”

I stared him down, extremely aware of the paint smeared across my hands and probably my face. “What do you want?”

His eyes scanned the room, ever vigilant. “Checking the perimeter. I know you love it here, but this studio has too many floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re too exposed. It’s not safe.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right, because art supplies are such a hot commodity for assassins. Besides, you follow me around like a stray cat, so I think I’m fine here.”

“Your safety isn’t a joke to me, Xenobia,” he said sternly.

“And what about my sanity?” I shot back. “Which I’m quickly losing, by the way, thanks to your constant hovering.”

Adonis took a step closer, his presence filling the small but spacious studio. “I’m here to protect you.”

I rolled my eyes as a loud groan escaped my lips. “Don’t you know any other words, or have you not been programmed to say anything else? All you talk about is protection and safety. It’s like you’re a fucking machine, Adonis. Tell me what the fuck you’re protecting me from! The Toussaint boogeyman? Or just living my own damn life?” I challenged. “Because right now, I don’t seeany threats, just an asshole from my past who keeps interfering with what I want to do in the present. So either prove that this threat is real or get the fuck out of my way.”

I stood my ground as Adonis approached, although my heart was bucking against its reins. His dark and unreadable eyes locked onto mine. Without warning, he reached out, his calloused thumb gently wiping a smudge of paint from my cheek before his hand flattened on my skin. His eyes looked at my lips before meeting my gaze.

“You’ve got some paint…” he murmured, his touch igniting a fire under my skin.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My body screamed to lean into his touch, but my pride kept me frozen in place.

“Don’t,” I whispered, hating how weak my voice sounded.

Adonis’s hand lingered, his fingers tracing the edge of the scar on my cheek. “Xenobia…”

I jerked away, my paintbrush clattering to the floor. “I said don’t!”

He stepped back, hands raised. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” I snapped, but my anger felt hollow. Empty. “Just… just go, Adonis. Please.”

He nodded once, his face a mask again. As he turned to leave, I saw anger on his face. I collapsed onto my stool, hands shaking.

What the hell was that?

Later that night, I tossed and turned in bed, Adonis’s fiery touch haunting me. When sleep finally came, it was irregularand filled with wild dreams and flashbacks of our past—two days before everything changed.

I stepped into the pool house, eager to find a private place to paint. Instead, I found Adonis. His brown orbs blazed as he looked at me. It was strange because I’d never seen him look at another woman that way. And I had seen him look at so many women over the years.

He’d just never looked at me.

Not like that, anyway.

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