Page 6 of Make Me Your Hitta

I scoffed. I was close enough now to see the flicker of something in his eyes. Concern? Pity? It only fueled my rage. “Fuck you. I’ve survived worse than whatever boogeyman my father’s pissed off this time, remember?” I hissed, gesturing to the scars that marred my skin.

Adonis’s sharp gaze softened just a little. “You almost died, Nobi. I held you while you almost died. I can’t afford to make the same mistakes. I can’t afford… to be distracted.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “So please… just let me do my job, and then I’ll leave again.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stumbled back, suddenly aware of how close we’d been standing. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t tell if it was from anger or something else.

“Just… just leave me the fuck alone,” I muttered, turning back to my painting. “For the thousandth time, I can take care of myself.”

But even as I protested, I knew it wasn’t true. And the worst part? A small, disloyal part of me didn’t want him to go. I felt Adonis’s eyes burning into my back as I faced my canvas. My hand trembled as I picked up the brush again, desperate to lose myself in the swirling colors and forget his presence.

“Xenobia,” he acknowledged, his baritone voice deep and rough. “I’m not going anywhere.”

My chest tightened with frustration and something else I couldn’t quite name as I slashed the brush across the canvas.

“Why not?” I spat, not turning around. “Why won’t you just disappear again? Tell my father you quit so he can hire someone else. Someone less…you.”

Adonis’s heavy footsteps echoed in the studio as he moved closer. I tensed, my grip on the brush making my knuckles harden.

“You know it’s more than that,” he murmured.

I whirled around, nearly colliding with his chest. “Do I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re just another mothafucka following my father’s orders.” I was so livid and didn’t have a real reason to be.

His eyes locked with mine, intense and unreadable. “Is that really what you think of me?”

My breath caught in my throat. We were too close. The air between us crackled with electricity. I caught the scent of his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and something darker.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I whispered, hating how vulnerable I sounded.

Adonis’s tattooed hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach out but was holding back. I fumbled in reverse, gently bumping into my easel.

“Just… just let me paint,” I said, turning away again. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel sane right now.”

I heard him sigh, but he didn’t leave. As I lost myself in the chaos on my canvas, I could feel his presence like a shadow at my back. Protective. Suffocating. And somehow, terrifyingly necessary.

I set down my brush, my hands shaking. The canvas was a mess, with blues peeking through the reds and highlighting the black before white streaks flashed downward, almost like lightning… like the scars that crisscrossed my skin. I traced one along my forearm, feeling the raised ridge under my fingertips.

“You don’t have to stare, you know,” I muttered, knowing Adonis was still here. Always here. “Everybody stares, and it’s annoying as hell.”

“I’m not staring, Nobi,” he confirmed quietly. “I’m watching.”

I scoffed. “Same difference.”

But it wasn’t, was it? His gaze felt different. Not pitying, like the doctors or strangers. Not clinical, like my father’s men assessing a liability or their fate if they fucked up. Just… aware, I guess.

I turned to face him while folding my arms across my chest. “You ever wonder what it’s like? To be the China doll with scars like Humpty Dumpty everyone’s afraid will break again?”

Adonis’s jaw tightened. “You’re not—”

“Save it.” I cut him off with the wave of my hand. “I’ve heard it all before. I’m strong, a survivor, blah, blah, blah. Doesn’t change the fact that ever since that night, my father hasn’t looked at me the same and hasn’t let me go anywhere without a guard, and now you’re my shiny new set of prison bars.”

He took another step closer, his eyes blazing. “You’re bullheaded, childish, reckless, and your ego is too damn big for your own fuckin’ good. You know that? But you’re not breakable, Xenobia.”

One eyebrow edged toward my hairline. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” he shot back.

His full-bodied voice was rich with a tone that I found both soothing and menacing. He spoke steadily, choosing his words carefully to ensure his thoughts were conveyed precisely how they were meant to be.

We stood there, glaring at each other, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Part of me wanted to throw my paintbrush at his stupidly handsome caramel face. His smooth skin seemed to glow under the studio lighting. His eyes were a deep, captivating brown that pulled me out to sea and threatened to watch me drown every time I looked at him. They were always filled with a mix of intensity and warmth every time I caught his gaze. His hair was tapered into a fade on the sides with low, jet-black curls on top, and he had a thick, groomed beard that stretched from ear to ear.

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