Chapter 18: Softened Steel
Anaijiah woke to the sensation of an empty bed, the space beside her cool. The penthouse was silent, a deep, insulated quiet that felt different from the street-level hum of her old apartment. She lay still for a moment, listening. A faint, rhythmic sound came from down the hall. A soft hum, punctuated by the gentle rustle of fabric.
She pushed back the duvet and padded barefoot across the cool concrete floor, following the sound. The nursery door was ajar, spilling warm, early-morning light into the dark hallway.
Nevaieh was inside, her back to the door. She was bent over the top drawer of the dresser, her broad shoulders moving with a focused precision. In her hands was a tiny, lemon-yellow onesie, which she was folding into a perfect, tiny square. The floor around her was a chaotic sea of pastel colors—piles of clothes, socks like doll items, blankets. The massive, intimidating gang leader, dressed only in low-slung sweats and her own tattoos, was meticulously organizing a rainbow of infant wear.
Anaijiah leaned against the doorframe, a smile pulling at her lips. Nevaieh was humming, something low and unrecognizable, a tune without a name.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Anaijiah’s voice was sleep-soft.
Nevaieh didn’t startle. She glanced over her shoulder, a rare, unguarded softness in her eyes. “Your daughter’s been doing footwork drills since five AM. Thought she might be protesting the furniture choices.” She placed the yellow folded square into a drawer already arranged by color—whites, yellows, then greens. It was obsessively neat.
Anaijiah walked in, the plush rug soft under her feet. She came up behind Nevaieh, wrapping her arms around her waist and resting her chin on her shoulder. She splayed her hands over the warm, taut skin of Nevaieh’s stomach. “You’re nesting. It’s my job to nest. You’re supposed to be out… I don’t know, intimidating supply chains or something.”
“Supply chains are handled.” Nevaieh’s hands paused over a pair of mint-green leggings. “This is logistics. Different thing.” She turned in Anaijiah’s loose embrace, her hands coming to rest on Anaijiah’s rounded belly. “Buenos días, mamacita. She wants these pink booties.” She nodded toward a pair of frilly, rose-pink booties sitting on top of a reject pile. “I told her no last night. Not her color. Too… obvious.”
Anaijiah snorted a laugh. “She’s the size of a mango. She doesn’t have a color palette.”
“She will,” Nevaieh stated simply, her thumbs making slow circles. “And it won’t be basic pink.” She leaned down and kissed Anaijiah’s belly, then her lips. “Go shower. I’ll finish this and make you eggs.”
The shop, "Ink & Irons," buzzed with its usual afternoon energy. The scent of green soap and sterile wipes mixed with the low thrum of tattoo machines. Anaijiah’s own machine was quiet for the moment as she leaned over her drafting table, sketching a custom piece—a serpent woven with calla lilies for a client’s forearm.
Zara, her piercer and best friend since Miami, wheeled her stool over, snapping her gum. “So. The Fortress of Solitude. How’s life in the sky?”
“Quiet,” Anaijiah said, not looking up from her lines. “Alarmingly clean. There’s a whole room just for shoes.”
“Her shoes or your shoes?”
“Her shoes. My shoes are still in boxes. She bought me a shelf system for them. It’s being ‘installed’ tomorrow.” She made air quotes with her charcoal-stained fingers.
Zara whistled low. “She’s building you a life, girl. Nails, shelves, nursery… You’re basically a kept woman now.”
Anaijiah finally looked up, fixing Zara with a stare. “I’m a paying tenant. We agreed on a rate. And I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Barely. It’s two PM. You used to roll in at eleven.”
“I had a meeting with a fabricator about the new display cases,” Anaijiah countered, but she knew Zara had a point. Her life had pivoted, its center of gravity shifted north to a penthouse. It didn’t feel like being kept. It felt like being… anchored. The thought was both comforting and unnerving.
Her stomach growled, a deep, urgent sound. “Okay, I’m starving. I’m gonna run to the taqueria and then to Supply Rite. We’re low on 5RLs and purple wash.”
“Want company?” Zara asked.
“Nah, I need the walk. Get some city air that isn’t filtered through a billion-dollar HVAC system.” She grabbed her leather jacket, the one that didn’t quite button over her belly anymore.
The late autumn air was brisk, slicing through the layer of her hoodie. She pulled her jacket tighter, feeling the vibrant phoenix tattoo on her thigh tingle in the cold. She walked with purpose, the rhythm of her boots on the pavement familiar and steady. This was her neighborhood, too. Or it was becoming hers. She nodded at the old man who always sold flowers on the corner, admired a fresh mural on a garage door.
She got her tacos first, eating one standing at the counter while they made the second to go, the spicy al pastor a welcome heat. Sufficiently fueled, she headed for Supply Rite, a nondescript warehouse-style store a few blocks over, in a transitional zone where the polish of her block began to fade.
She was halfway down a block of shuttered storefronts, her mind on needle cartridges and the new mint-green ink she wanted to try, when the feeling hit her. A prickle on the back of her neck. She slowed, pretending to check her phone.
A figure detached from a shadowed doorway ahead. Then another from an alley to her right. They weren't Nevaieh's people. The colors were wrong—a dull blue bandana, a leather vest over a hoodie. Rival territory. She kept walking, her pace even, her heart beginning a hard, slow thump against her ribs.
"Hey." The voice was low, meant to carry. The larger of the two, a guy with a shaved head and dense neck tattoos, stepped directly into her path. He was smiling, but it didn't touch his eyes. "You Anaijiah, right? The tattoo girl Nevaieh's got knocked up."
She stopped, holding her bag of tacos and supply list. "I'm Anaijiah. I'm a tattoo artist. Can I help you?" Her voice was steadier than she felt.
"Just paying respects," the second one said, slimmer, with a nervous energy. He circled to her side. "Heard the Queen of the South Side was having a little princess. Wanted to offer our… congratulations."
The big one took a step closer. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne washed over her. "Yeah. Congrats. Must be nice, living up in that glass palace. Bet you feel real safe."
Anaijiah's knuckles were white around her taco bag. "I'm just getting supplies for my business. You guys want a card? We do good work." She made to move around him.
He shifted, blocking her again. His hand came up, not to hit, but to gesture, a finger pointing vaguely at her belly. "That's a precious cargo you're carrying there. Things can happen out here. So unpredictable."
The threat hung in the air, cold and explicit. Her baby, her body, a message to Nevaieh. The primal fury that rose in her was a white-hot column. She dropped the taco bag. "Get your finger out of my face," she said, her voice dropping, low and dangerous.
He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. "Or what? You gonna tell your girlfriend?"
Before she could react, before she could even step back, the dynamic shifted. A black SUV, windows tinted, rolled to a silent stop at the curb ten feet away. The doors opened almost before it stopped moving.
Three men got out. Anaijiah recognized them instantly—Santi, Nevaieh's right hand, with his permanent scowl, and two younger members she'd seen at the shop picking her up. They moved with a unified, terrifying efficiency, completely silent.
The two blue-bandana guys stiffened, their bravado evaporating. The big one lowered his hand, taking a half-step back.
Santi walked right past Anaijiah as if she were a lamp post, his focus entirely on the rivals. He got right in the big one's face, so close their chests almost touched. He didn't say a word. He just stared, his eyes flat and cold.
One of the younger crew, a guy named Reyes, scooped up Anaijiah's taco bag from the sidewalk. "Boss," he said quietly, standing beside her. "Let's get you to the car."
The third member flanked her other side, a solid, unmovable presence. He didn't look at the confrontation; he scanned the street, the rooftops, his hand resting casually near his waist.
On the sidewalk, Santi finally spoke, his voice barely a murmur. "You are a block and a half from where your breath becomes my problem. You are currently breathing my air. Looking at what's mine." He tilted his head toward Anaijiah. "You will not do that again. You will not think her name. You will forget this street exists. If I see blue on this curb again, I will paint the bricks with it. ¿Entiendes?"
The big guy gave a tiny, rigid nod. The smaller one looked like he might vomit.
Santi took a deliberate step back. "Run."
They didn't need to be told twice. They turned and walked swiftly away, their retreat trying too hard not to be a run.
Only then did Santi turn to Anaijiah. His expression didn't soften, but the killing focus shifted. "You okay?"
She took a deep, shaky breath. The adrenaline was making her hands tremble. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Reyes handed her the taco bag. "Sorry about your lunch. Probably squished."
The mundane concern almost made her laugh. "It's okay."
Santi nodded toward the SUV. "Get in. We'll take you for supplies."
"I was just walking—"
"Not anymore," Santi said, finality in his tone. It wasn't unkind. It was fact. "Jefa's orders. We're never not here. Get in."
The ride to Supply Rite was silent. The crew didn't speak. Anaijiah stared out the window, the city blurring past. The fear was gone, replaced by a simmering, complex anger. Anger at the blue-bandana guys. Anger at the situation. Anger, faintly, at Nevaieh, for being right about the danger, for making the protection so seamless and absolute that she hadn't even seen it coming.
At the store, Santi and Reyes walked in with her. They didn't hover, but they were always there, at the end of the aisle, by the door. She picked out her needles, her inks, her ointment, the routine act feeling both normal and utterly surreal.
Back in the SUV, heading to the shop, Santi finally spoke from the front passenger seat, looking at her in the rear-view. "They were Green Street Boys. Low-level. Trying to make points. It won't happen again."
"It already did happen," Anaijiah said, her voice quiet.
Santi held her gaze in the mirror. "Yeah. It did. And now they know. And everyone they know will know. That's how this works."
They dropped her off at Ink & Irons. As she got out, Santi stopped her. "Jefa wants you home by six. We'll be outside."
Anaijiah just nodded, clutching her bag of supplies and her cold, squished tacos.
Zara took one look at her face as she walked back in. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Anaijiah said, too quickly. She set the supplies down on her station. Her hands were finally still. She looked at them, at the ink stains, the steady artist's hands. Then she looked out the front window of the shop. Across the street, parked in a no-parking zone, was the black SUV.
Nevaieh had built her a nursery, a sanctuary of soft blankets and promises. She had also, without Anaijiah fully realizing it, drawn a perimeter around her world. A line had been crossed today, not by her, but by virtue of her connection. The threat had been vague, but the response had been absolute. The message was clear: she was inside the fortress now, whether she was looking out from the penthouse or walking down the street. The walls were just invisible.
The squished tacos sat forgotten on her workstation. Anaijiah stared at the wall, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her drafting paper. The buzz of the shop felt distant, muffled by the low thrum of her own pulse in her ears. Zara hovered nearby, not pushing, just quietly rearranging her jewelry trays.
“You want some water?” Zara finally asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Anaijiah shook her head. Her skin felt too tight. Across the street, the SUV hadn’t moved. “I just need to work,” she said, more to herself than to Zara. She picked up her machine, loading a fresh, sterile needle. The familiar ritual grounded her—the click of the grip, the tension of the armature bar. She flipped the power on. The machine’s buzz was a cleaner, more honest sound.
She worked on the serpent sketch for an hour, losing herself in the lines. The client, a regular, chatted amiably, oblivious. Anaijiah nodded at the right places, her hands steady, her mind elsewhere. Every time the shop door chimed, her eyes flicked to the entrance.
It chimed again just after five. Santi walked in alone. He didn’t approach her station, just stood near the front, a silent, solid mass. He caught her eye and gave a single, slight nod toward the door.
Nevaieh was here.
Anaijiah finished wiping down her client’s new ink, applied the bandage, and went through the aftercare instructions on autopilot. Her movements were precise, professional. Inside, everything was churning. She washed her hands slowly, watching the water swirl pink then clear down the drain.
Nevaieh was leaning against the passenger side of the SUV, arms crossed. She wasn’t in full colors, just a black hoodie and jeans, but her posture screamed authority. The street seemed to bend around her, quieter. When she saw Anaijiah, she pushed off the vehicle and closed the distance in a few swift strides.
Her hands came up, cupping Anaijiah’s face. Her thumbs swept over Anaijiah’s cheekbones, her eyes scanning every detail—her pupils, the tension in her jaw. “Talk to me,” Nevaieh said, her voice low, stripping away any pretense.
“I’m fine. They just talked. Santi handled it.” Anaijiah’s words came out clipped.
“Santi told me what they said.” Nevaieh’s gaze dropped to Anaijiah’s stomach, then back up. Her jaw tightened. “They pointed at her.”
“It was a vague threat, Neva. They were trying to scare me.”
“It worked.” It wasn’t a question. Nevaieh’s hands slid down, one resting protectively on Anaijiah’s belly, the other gripping her hip. “You’re shaking.”
Anaijiah hadn’t even noticed. A tremor was moving through her, a delayed reaction. She leaned into Nevaieh’s touch, her forehead coming to rest against her shoulder. She inhaled the familiar scent of leather and clean soap. “I hated it,” she muttered into the hoodie. “I hated feeling like a... a prop in your drama.”
Nevaieh’s grip tightened for a fraction of a second. “You’re not a prop. You’re the point.” She pulled back just enough to look at her. “The baby?”
“Kicking like a soccer player. She’s fine.” Anaijiah took a deep, steadying breath. “They were just low-level guys. You didn’t have to… deploy a unit.”
“Yes,” Nevaieh said, the word absolute. “I did.” She looked over Anaijiah’s shoulder, her eyes locking with Santi’s through the shop window. A silent communication passed. “Come home. Now.”
“I have another client in forty minutes.”
“Cancel it.”
“Neva—”
“Anaijiah.” Her voice dropped, a strained calm over steel. “Please. Let me do this one thing. Let me take you home where the doors are steel and the windows are bulletproof and I can watch you breathe.” The raw plea in her eyes was more unsettling than her anger.
Anaijiah looked away, down the street where it had happened. The normalcy of the scene—a woman walking her dog, a bike delivery—felt like a lie. The invisible walls were there, and she was now acutely, painfully aware of their dimensions. She nodded, once.
Nevaieh’s shoulders relaxed a millimeter. She opened the SUV door, guiding Anaijiah inside with a hand on the small of her back. Before she got in herself, she turned to Santi, who had appeared at her side. “The Green Street Boys. The two who were here. I want their names on my desk in an hour.”
“Already done, Jefa,” Santi murmured.
“Good. Make sure they understand the geometry. The map has changed. Their sidewalk ended two blocks ago.” She didn’t wait for a reply, sliding into the seat beside Anaijiah.
The drive back to the penthouse was silent. Nevaieh held Anaijiah’s hand, her thumb tracing circles on her skin. Once inside the elevator, Nevaieh pushed the button for their floor, then immediately turned and wrapped Anaijiah in a full, deep embrace. She buried her face in Anaijiah’s curls.
“When he called,” Nevaieh whispered, her voice muffled, “I felt my heart stop. I actually felt it stop.”
Anaijiah held onto her, the last of her resistance crumbling. She could feel the frantic, hammering beat of Nevaieh’s heart against her own. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”
The elevator dinged. Nevaieh didn’t let go until the doors began to reopen. She led Anaijiah not to the living room, but straight to the nursery. She guided her to the velvet rocking chair and knelt before her, her hands sliding under Anaijiah’s shirt to rest on the warm, bare skin of her belly.
“Hey,” she whispered, her voice shifting into that soft, private tone. “You gave your mom a scare today. That’s not cool, pequeña.” She leaned down and pressed a long, lingering kiss just below Anaijiah’s navel. “You are never, ever allowed to be a tool for someone else’s stupid games. You hear me? Your world is safe. I’m making it safe.”
A powerful kick answered, a firm press against Nevaieh’s palm. Nevaieh let out a shaky laugh, her forehead resting against Anaijiah’s stomach. “See? She agrees.” She looked up, her eyes glistening. “I need you to let me do my job, Ana. My most important job.”
Anaijiah looked at her—this fierce, terrifying woman on her knees among the soft blankets and stuffed animals, her hands claiming sanctuary on the life growing inside her. The conflict didn’t dissolve, but it settled, reorganizing into a new, more complicated shape. The fortress had a drawbridge. And she was, for now, willingly inside.
“Okay,” Anaijiah breathed, her own hand coming to cover Nevaieh’s. “Okay.”
Anaijiah mumbled “okay” into the warm skin of Nevaieh’s shoulder, the word absorbed by black cotton. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving a hollow, shaky exhaustion in its wake. The promise felt heavy, a chain and an anchor all at once. She let herself be led to the bedroom, her movements sluggish.
Nevaieh peeled the leather jacket from her shoulders with a careful, almost clinical tenderness. “Sit,” she directed, guiding Anaijiah to the edge of the mattress. She knelt again, this time to work Anaijiah’s boots off, her fingers deft on the laces. Each touch was purposeful, grounding. “I’ll run you a bath.”
“I don’t need a bath,” Anaijiah protested weakly, but Nevaieh was already walking toward the en-suite. She heard the water start, the hard splash against porcelain softening to a steady pour.
Nevaieh returned, her expression unreadable. “You’re covered in street dust and fear. You need a bath.” She held out a hand. “Come on.”
The bathroom was filled with steam, fragrant with the scent of eucalyptus and lavender oil Nevaieh had added. Anaijiah stood passively as Nevaieh helped her undress, the events of the afternoon hanging between them in the humid air. When she was naked, Nevaieh’s gaze swept over her—not with desire, but with a fierce, scrutinizing assessment, checking for any harm the eyes could see.
“In you go,” Nevaieh said, her voice a low murmur against the tile.
The water was almost painfully hot, just shy of scalding. Anaijiah sank into it with a gasp that melted into a groan as the heat penetrated the deep ache in her lower back, the tension clenched between her shoulders. She submerged her head, letting the water roar in her ears, trying to drown out the echo of that malevolent “congratulations.”
When she surfaced, Nevaieh was sitting on the closed toilet lid, watching her. She had rolled up her sleeves. “Talk,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
“What’s there to say? They found me. Your guys found them. It’s done.” Anaijiah traced the phoenix tattoo on her thigh beneath the water, the vibrant inks blurred and shimmering.
“It’s not done for you.” Nevaieh leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “I see it in your eyes. You’re pissed. At them. At me. At the whole goddamn city.”
Anaijiah looked away, at the droplets racing down the glass shower wall. “I didn’t ask for this version of safe, Neva. I didn’t ask for a… a human security detail shadowing my lunch break.”
“You’re carrying my child.” The words were flat, factual, a stone dropped into the steamy room. “That is what you’re doing. It’s not an insult. It’s biology. And that makes you a target in a world I exist in. My version of safe is the only one on the menu right now.”
The truth of it was a cold, slick thing in Anaijiah’s gut. She slapped the water with her palm, a sudden, sharp protest. “So what? I just stop living? I just become a… a person of interest tucked in your penthouse? You built me a studio with north light. For what? To stare at the walls?”
Nevaieh stood up. She grabbed a fresh, plush towel from the heated rack. “For after.” She said it simply. “This is for now. Now isn’t forever.” She held the towel open. “Now, you’re getting out before you prune. Come on.”
The next morning was her off day, and the exhaustion hit her like a physical weight. It wasn’t just sleepiness; it was a deep, systemic soreness. Her hips ached with a dull, persistent throb, as if they were being slowly pried apart. Her lower back was a constellation of sharp pains. Even her feet felt swollen and tender inside her socks.
She shuffled into the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter for support. Nevaieh was at the table, a tablet and a ledger book open beside her. She looked up, her eyes narrowing. “You look like hell.”
“Feel like it,” Anaijiah grumbled, reaching for the coffee pot.
Nevaieh was out of her chair in a second, her hand closing over Anaijiah’s. “No caffeine. Doctor’s orders, remember? Especially after yesterday.” Her tone brooked no argument. “Sit. I’ll make you the tea that shitty book recommends.”
“I hate that tea,” Anaijiah muttered, but she sank heavily into a chair. Every movement elicited a new complaint from her body.
“Tough.” Nevaieh filled a kettle, her movements efficient. She pulled a box of herbal tea from a cupboard—something with raspberry leaf and nettle. “You’re sore.”
“My entire skeleton feels like it’s redecorating.” Anaijiah rested her head on her arms on the table. “My own body is gentrifying my joints.”
A dry chuckle escaped Nevaieh. She set the kettle on the stove and came behind Anaijiah’s chair. Her strong, capable hands settled on the knotted muscles of Anaijiah’s shoulders, pressing deep. Anaijiah let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-sob of relief.
“Should have said something,” Nevaieh murmured, her thumbs working a cruel, wonderful magic along her spine.
“You were busy plotting the demise of the Green Street Boys.”
“Multitasking.” Nevaieh’s fingers dug into a particularly stubborn knot. “The bath last night wasn’t enough. You held all that tension in.” Her touch softened, shifting from therapeutic to something more like worship, tracing the intricate ink of the sunset roses that cascaded across Anaijiah’s back, visible through her thin tank top. “My tough girl. You don’t have to be tough with me. Not about this.”
The tea was placed in front of her, steaming and smelling faintly of grass. Nevaieh resumed her seat, watching her expectantly. Anaijiah took a reluctant sip. It tasted like hot lawn clippings.
“After you drink that,” Nevaieh said, tapping her tablet screen off, “we’re going out.”
Anaijiah’s head snapped up. “Out? I thought I was on lockdown. I thought my sidewalk privileges were revoked.”
“Not that kind of out.” Nevaieh’s lips twitched. “A different kind of procurement. You need to move. Carefully. And you need something that isn’t these.” She flicked the strap of Anaijiah’s tank top.
An hour later, Anaijiah found herself in a serene, minimalist boutique in the West Loop, a world away from her usual thrift stores and artist supply haunts. The air smelled of beeswax and linen. Nevaieh stalked the racks with the same focused intensity she’d applied to the baby clothes, but now her mission was maternity wear.
“This,” she announced, pulling out an absurdly soft-looking black jumpsuit with an elasticated waist. “And this.” A drapey cardigan in a deep emerald green. “You need pants that feel like clouds.” She held up a pair of wide-legged linen trousers.
“Neva, this place is… expensive.” Anaijiah whispered, fingering the price tag on the jumpsuit. It cost more than her tattoo machine’s power supply.
Nevaieh plucked the tag from her fingers and let it drop. “My queen aches. My princess is crowding her organs. This is a solvable problem.” She flagged down a sleek, helpful sales associate. “We need everything in her size that says ‘unrestricted movement’ and ‘nap-ready.’ Start a room.”
They spent the next ninety minutes in a private, airy dressing room. Nevaieh was a ruthless editor, dismissing anything that made Anaijiah frown or that didn’t meet her obscure standard of “perfect drape.” She kneeled to adjust hems, stood back to assess silhouettes, her critiques blunt. “That color washes you out.” “The ruching is trying too hard.” “This one. This is the one.”
The “one” was a simple, impossibly soft dress in a cobalt blue that made Anaijiah’s skin glow. It flowed from a fitted bodice, skimming over her belly without constraint. Nevaieh looked at her in it, her head tilted. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she stepped forward and adjusted the collar with two fingers, her touch lingering.
“You look…” she searched for the word, her usual confidence faltering. “You look like peace.”
Back in the penthouse, dressed in the new, cloud-soft clothes, Anaijiah did feel better. The physical soreness was still there, a deep background hum, but it was cushioned by fabric that didn’t fight her body. Nevaieh had her lie on the long, charcoal sofa, propping her feet up with a velvet cushion.
“Your studio shelves are being installed tomorrow,” Nevaieh said, sitting on the floor beside her, her back against the sofa. She picked up one of Anaijiah’s feet and began to massage it with a firm, sure pressure.
Anaijiah groaned, her head falling back. “You’re trying to spoil me into submission.”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.” She watched Nevaieh’s bent head, the concentrated furrow in her brow as she worked at the arch of her foot. This fearsome woman, who could order a man’s world dismantled with a phone call, was personally attending to her swollen feet. The contradiction was so vast it almost hurt. “What happens,” Anaijiah asked slowly, “when I have to go back out there? To the shop?”
Nevaieh’s hands didn’t pause. “Santi or Reyes drives you. They stay. They blend in. You do your work.”
“And if the… geography… gets confused again?”
Nevaieh looked up, her dark eyes meeting Anaijiah’s. The tenderness was gone, replaced by a flat, ancient cold. “Then the map gets redrawn. Permanently.” She said it with a chilling simplicity. Then she lifted Anaijiah’s foot and placed a kiss on the inside of her ankle, a soft counterpoint to the ice in her words. “But it won’t. They know now.”
The sun began to set, washing the vast room in shades of orange and grey. The city lights flickered on, one by one, a glittering grid far below their fortress. Nevaieh shifted, lying on her side on the floor next to the sofa, her head level with Anaijiah’s belly. She pushed the soft fabric of the dress up and pressed her ear against the taut skin.
“What are you doing?” Anaijiah asked, running her fingers through Nevaieh’s hair.
“Listening to my future,” Nevaieh murmured, her voice a vibration against Anaijiah’s flesh. She closed her eyes. A minute passed in the quiet, just the sound of their breathing and the distant city hum. Then, Nevaieh smiled, a slow, radiant thing that transformed her whole face. “She’s telling me a secret.”
“What’s she saying?”
Nevaieh turned her head, her cheek resting on Anaijiah’s stomach, looking up at her. “She’s saying she’s not a story in a ledger or a point on a map.” She placed a soft, deliberate kiss just above Anaijiah’s navel. “She’s saying she’s ours. And that’s a different kind of power.”