Page 28 of Make Me Your Hitta

I led her through the winding corridors of the estate, my hand hovering near the small of her back but never quite touching. The air felt thick with tension, or maybe that was just me. My palms were sweating. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been that nervous.

We stopped in front of a heavy wooden door I had installed just days prior across the hall from the panic room. I watched Xenobia’s face, searching for any hint of her thoughts.

“Close your eyes,” I murmured.

She raised a questioning eyebrow, that defiant spark dancing in her gaze. “You know how I feel about you ordering me around.”

I couldn’t stifle the smirk that tugged at my lips. “Humor a nigga, Nobi.”

She sighed dramatically but complied. I pushed open the door, guiding her inside. The scent of fresh paint and canvas hit me, and I prayed to a God I’d long since stopped believing in that she’d like it.

“Alright,” I said softly. “Open ’em.”

Xenobia’s eyes flew open, and she just stood there for a moment, frozen. Then her lips parted in a small ‘o’ of surprise, her gaze darting around the room. Easels stood at the ready; brushes and paints of every color imaginable lined the shelves.A large window looked out over the gardens, flooding the space with natural light.

She gasped. “Adonis,” she whispered. “You did all this... for me?”

Something warm expanded in my chest, melting the ice I’d spent years building around my heart. “Yeah,” I admitted gruffly. “I’d pluck the stars right out of the sky for you if you asked me to. You should know that by now, Nobi. Besides, I figured you needed a safer studio. This is about as good as it’ll get until everything’s sorted.”

She turned to me, her eyes shining with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. It made my throat tight and my skin too hot for my clothes. “I love it. It’s perfect,” Xenobia acknowledged, her blooming smile like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, even as relief washed over me. “It’s nothing,” I muttered. “Just thought you might like it, is all.”

But as I watched her move through the room, trailing her fingers over blank canvases with awe, I knew it was so much more than nothing. It was everything. She was everything. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, as Xenobia set up her first canvas. My eyes never left her, scanning for threats out of habit. But for once, the constant tension in my muscles eased a bit.

She mixed colors with a practiced hand, humming softly to herself. The sound filled the room, drowning out the usual noise in my head—the endless calculations, the paranoia, the weight of duty.

“You gonna stand there all day like a statue?” Xenobia teased, glancing over her shoulder at me.

I grunted. “It’s my job to watch you.”

“Well, at least make yourself comfortable. There’s a chair over there.”

I hesitated, then grabbed the chair and positioned it where I could see both Xenobia and the door. As I settled in, something unexpected happened. The chaos in my mind faded away. Watching her paint was like… I don’t know, like finding an oasis in the middle of a war zone. Her brush strokes were sure and steady, creating something beautiful out of nothing. It hit me then—that was what she did to my life too.

Shit. I should be finding the mole, protecting her, but here I am, wanting to capture her sunshine and carry it in my back pocket.

I cleared my throat. “So, uh, what are you painting?”

Xenobia’s lips curved into a secretive smile. “You’ll see when it’s finished.”

“Mysterious ass.” I muttered, but I couldn’t help smirking back at her.

As she worked, I found myself relaxing, really relaxing, for the first time in, hell—I couldn’t even remember. It scared me how much peace her presence brought me, how much I craved it. I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost didn’t notice when Xenobia set down her brush and turned to me with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Your turn,” she said, reaching for my arm.

“What are you—” I started, but then I felt the cool touch of her paintbrush on my skin. I could’ve stopped her. Should’ve, even. But I didn’t. Her touch was light, almost teasing, as she painted something on my forearm. I watched, transfixed, as the letters took shape.

M-I-N-E.

Fuck.

And then she kissed me, and it was like a dam breaking. All the pent-up desire, all the love I’d tried to ignore—it all came rushing out. I kissed her back, hard and desperate, one hand tangled in her hair while the other pulled her closer. Itwas exposed and so fuckin’ wrong, but it felt more right than anything ever had.

I pulled back, my mind reeling. The taste of her cherry-flavored lip gloss lingered on my lips, a reminder of what I’d just done—whatwe’djust done. I stared at her, torn between desire and duty. The word she’d painted on my skin seemed to burn, a brand I couldn’t ignore.Mine.Was I hers? Could I be?

“Are you sure nothing has changed between us now that you know who my father is?”

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