Chapter 4: Solitude and Surprises
The sun had become her enemy.
Amber stood at the kitchen window, watching the last traces of daylight bleed into the Charlotte skyline. The blinds were drawn tight, the curtains pulled shut, but she could still see the orange glow leaking through the cracks, the world outside continuing like nothing had changed. Like her entire life hadn't been turned inside out a week ago.
A week.
Seven days of hiding. Seven days of jumping at every sound, every car that passed too slow, every shadow that moved in her peripheral vision. Seven days of yoga at dawn—downward dog and child's pose and the kind of deep breathing that was supposed to calm your nervous system but didn't do shit when your nervous system was convinced someone was about to put a bullet in your skull.
She'd gotten good at this. The isolation. The silence.
She'd started cooking again—real meals, not the takeout she survived on when she was working double shifts at the shop. Collard greens simmering on the stove. Cornbread in the cast iron. The kind of food her grandmother used to make, back when Sunday dinners were sacred and the world felt smaller, safer.
She'd taken long baths every night, soaking in lavender salts until her skin pruned, trying to wash away the memory of his hands. The way he'd gripped her hips. The way he'd fucked her like she was a stranger. The way he'd walked out without looking back.
It hadn't worked.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. Every time she touched herself—and she had, more than once, her fingers finding that slick heat between her thighs while she tried to remember what it felt like to be wanted instead of used—she felt his ghost between her legs.
She was losing her mind.
Or maybe she'd already lost it.
She turned away from the window, her bare feet padding against the hardwood floor. The townhouse was quiet. Too quiet. She'd stopped playing music days ago—couldn't stand the silence but couldn't stand the noise either. Just existed in this weird twilight of paranoia and exhaustion.
Her phone sat on the kitchen counter, still on silent. She hadn't checked it in two days. Didn't want to see the messages from Jayla, from her clients, from the dozens of people who expected her to be the Amber they knew—the loud one, the funny one, the one who always had a smart word and a sharper smile.
She didn't feel like being that Amber right now.
She didn't feel like being anyone.
A knock at the door made her freeze.
Three sharp raps. Not the hesitant kind that meant a neighbor needing sugar. Not the casual kind that meant a delivery she'd ordered. This was deliberate. Precise. The knock of someone who knew exactly where they were going and exactly how to get there.
Amber's heart launched into her throat.
She stood there for a moment, paralyzed, her mind racing through every possibility. Kash's men, coming to take her away like he'd planned. The feds, finally making their move. Delgado's people, ready to send a message written in blood.
Or Kash himself.
She moved toward the door, her legs shaky, her hands trembling. The peephole distorted the figure on the other side—a delivery uniform, brown and generic, the kind that could belong to any number of services. A man's face, unremarkable and forgettable.
She didn't open the door.
"Who is it?"
"Delivery for Johnson."
"I didn't order anything."
"Got a note here says you'd say that." The voice was bored, rehearsed. "Says you should open up."
Amber's blood ran cold.
She cracked the door open, just a sliver, the chain still in place. The delivery guy—young, Black, bored as hell—held up two bags of groceries, the paper kind that smelled like a farm stand. Through the crack, she could see fresh produce, a dozen eggs, bottles of something cold and sweating.
"Someone paid a lot of money to make sure you got this," he said, shrugging. "I just do what I'm told."
He set the bags down on the porch and left.
Amber stood there for a long moment, staring at the groceries through the crack in the door. She counted to sixty, then to sixty again, listening for footsteps, for engines, for anything that might tell her this was a trap.
Nothing. Just silence.
She closed the door, unchained it, and opened it wide enough to drag the bags inside. Then she locked and chained it again, her hands shaking so hard she could barely manage the latches.
The bags sat on her kitchen counter, overflowing with things she hadn't asked for. Honeycrisp apples, the expensive kind she only bought when she was treating herself. A wheel of brie. A bag of those sea salt caramels she'd been obsessed with in the fall. Fresh spinach, cherry tomatoes, a whole chicken.
And tucked at the bottom of the second bag, a bottle of her favorite wine—a Malbec from a vineyard in Argentina she'd mentioned once, just once, months ago.
There was a note.
She almost didn't read it. Almost threw it in the trash without looking, without giving him the satisfaction. But her hands moved before her brain could stop them, unfolding the paper with the kind of desperate urgency she hated herself for.
Eat. I'm watching.
She felt the floor drop out from under her.
The words blurred in front of her eyes. The handwriting was his—she'd recognize those sharp, precise letters anywhere. He'd written her dozens of notes over the years, little things he'd leave on the nightstand when he had to leave early, or tucked into her purse when he knew she was having a bad day. But those notes had been sweet. Soft. Him telling her he loved her, that he'd be back soon, that she should buy herself something nice.
This was a threat.
She read it again. Then a third time. Then she threw the note on the counter and stepped back, her chest heaving, her mind spinning like a record player at the wrong speed.
He was watching.
Which meant he knew she was here. Which meant he knew she'd come to the townhouse instead of disappearing like he'd wanted. Which meant her little rebellion—her stubborn refusal to run—hadn't gone unnoticed.
And he wasn't happy about it.
She paced the kitchen, her bare feet slapping against the tile floor, her hands tangling in her hair. He was watching. The windows were covered, but there were other ways—cameras he'd installed months ago that she'd forgotten about, the security system he'd insisted on that probably had hidden features she didn't know about. He'd always been paranoid. Always kept eyes on everything that mattered to him.
And she mattered to him.
That was the sick thing. That was the part that made her want to scream and cry and break things all at once. She mattered to him, and that meant he'd never truly let her go. He'd send her away, sure. He'd stuff her in a car and ship her off to some safe house in the middle of nowhere. But he'd always be watching. Always be tracking. Always be there.
He'd said it himself: "You think I want to wake up tomorrow and not have you next to me?"
That wasn't about protecting her. That was about possession.
That was about ownership.
Amber stopped pacing. She stood in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by groceries she hadn't asked for, and felt a rage building in her chest that she hadn't felt in years. Not since she was a teenager, fighting with her mother's boyfriends, screaming until her throat went raw.
He thought he could control her. He thought he could love her and own her at the same time.
She was done.
She grabbed a bottle of wine—not the one he'd sent, but the cheap rosé she'd bought from Trader Joe's a month ago—and poured herself a glass. Then she drank it in three swallows and poured another.
She was going to make him stop watching. She was going to make him see that she wasn't some fragile thing to be protected and hidden. She was Amber Fucking Johnson, and she'd spent her whole life learning how to survive without anyone's help.
The wine hit her stomach warm and fast.
She carried the bottle to the living room, dropped onto her couch—the oversized velvet thing in emerald green that she'd bought because it reminded her of the old Hollywood movies her grandmother used to watch. She took another drink, straight from the bottle this time, and stared at the ceiling.
What would it take to get him to come to her?
If he was watching—and he was—then he'd see her drinking. He'd see her alone. He'd see her losing her edge, spiraling into something she hadn't been in years.
Maybe that would bring him running.
Maybe he'd come through the door like he always did, all fury and purpose, demanding to know what the fuck she was doing. And she'd tell him. She'd tell him exactly what she thought of his "protection." His "love." His goddamn power plays.
Or maybe he wouldn't.
Maybe he'd just keep watching from whatever hole he was hiding in, sending groceries and notes and little reminders that she was his.
Another knock at the door.
Amber's heart did that double-beat thing again, the kind that made her feel like she'd just run a mile. She set the wine bottle down and walked to the door, her steps silent, her breath held.
She didn't look through the peephole this time. She just opened the door.
Kash stood on her porch.
He looked like hell.
His suit was rumpled, his locs escaped from whatever tie he usually kept them in. There was a darkness under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, and his jaw was set so tight she could see the veins standing out in his neck.
He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, the smoke on his clothes. He loomed over her, all six-two of him, and something in his eyes was burning like he was barely holding himself together.
"Your note," she said, her voice cold. "What a thoughtful gift."
"The groceries," he said. "You haven't eaten."
"I ate."
"The fuck you did. I've been watching your kitchen windows. You've been drinking wine and taking baths for the last three days. That's not eating."
She felt heat crawl up her neck—shame and fury tangled together. "So I'm supposed to be grateful? You've been spying on me, and I'm supposed to say thank you?"
"I installed those cameras six months ago. You know that. You've known that."
"I didn't know you'd use them."
He closed the distance between them so fast she didn't see it coming. One hand caught her jaw, the other pressed flat against the door beside her head. His body was a wall of heat and tension, and she could feel the anger radiating off him like a fever.
"You didn't leave," he said. "I gave you everything you needed. Cash. A car. A plan. And you didn't leave."
"I did leave. I left your house. I came here."
"That's not leaving. That's hiding in plain sight." His thumb brushed across her lower lip, deliberate, possessive. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You're waiting for me. You've been waiting for me since the minute I walked out that door."
Her breath caught. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Amber."
"I said don't."
He kissed her.
It was the kind of kiss she'd been dreading and craving in equal measure—hard, demanding, full of teeth and tongue and all the unfiltered need he'd been holding back. His hands moved from her jaw to her hips, gripping her through the thin fabric of her leggings, pulling her flush against him.
"You think I can stand it?" he rasped against her mouth. "You think I can go a week without feeling you? Without tasting you? Without being inside you?"
"You fucked me like I was nothing."
"Because I was terrified." His hands slid up her back, under her shirt, rough against her skin. "Because I got a message that said they were going to kill you, and I didn't know what else to do except bury myself in you and hope the world would fall apart before I had to face it."
"You could have talked to me."
"I don't know how." His voice cracked—actually cracked—and she felt something shift inside her, some wall she'd built starting to crumble. "I've never known how, Ams. You know that. I know how to give orders. I know how to move weight. I know how to hurt people. I don't know how to tell the woman I love that I'm failing her."
She pulled back, just enough to look at him. Really look at him. He was shaking. Kash King—the man who owned the Carolinas, the man whose name made grown men cross the street to avoid him—was shaking under her hands.
"You're not failing me," she said.
"I'm losing everything." He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in. "The feds are closing in. Delgado's making moves. And every time I close my eyes, I see your face and I see you dead, and I can't—"
"Kash."
"I can't lose you."
She kissed him this time. It was softer than his had been, but it wasn't gentle. She poured everything into it—all the fear, all the want, all the nights she'd spent staring at the ceiling and wishing he was there. She kissed him like it was the only language she knew, like words were useless, like this was the only way she could tell him she understood.
He pulled her leggings down in one rough motion, his fingers hooking in the waistband and dragging them to her knees. Then his hands found her bare thighs, her hips, the curve of her ass—every place he'd marked with his fingers the last time he'd touched her.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
"Don't you dare."
He lifted her by the hips and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. He carried her to the couch and laid her out on the velvet, her leggings still tangled around her ankles. He knelt between her thighs, pulled his cock out—already hard, already leaking—and buried himself inside her with one brutal stroke.
She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket.
He fucked her like he was trying to prove something. Not to her—to himself, maybe. To whatever demons were chasing him. Every stroke was deep, punishing, the kind of raw, unfiltered passion that didn't care about technique or finesse. He was using her body to say everything he couldn't say with words.
And she let him.
She let him because she needed him. She needed this. Not the drama, not the danger, not the fear—but him. The man who'd held her when she cried about her mother. The man who'd paid for her nail shop when the bank turned her down. The man who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth protecting.
"You're mine," he growled against her neck.
"I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Kash."
He fucked her harder, his hips slamming against hers with an urgency that bordered on violence. She clawed at his back, her acrylics tearing through his shirt, scoring his skin. She wanted to mark him. Wanted him to look in the mirror tomorrow and see the evidence of her.
He came with a low, animal sound, spilling inside her, his whole body shaking. He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the couch, his breath hot against her shoulder.
They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, the smell of wine and sweat and sex thick in the air. Amber traced her fingers through his locs, her heart still pounding, her mind still spinning.
"I'm not going back to the house," she said quietly.
He lifted his head, his eyes hazy, his expression guarded. "Amber—"
"I'm staying here. This is my place. My life. You don't get to rip it away from me because of your mess."
He stared at her for a long moment. She expected an argument. Expected him to pull rank, to remind her of all the reasons she was in danger. She braced herself for the fight.
But he just nodded.
"Okay," he said.
Okay.
She didn't trust it. Not for a second. But she pulled him closer anyway.
They stayed like that until the streetlights came on.
They stayed like that until the streetlights came on.
His weight pressed her into the velvet, his breath evening out against her collarbone. The room had gone dim around them, shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. She could feel his heartbeat slowing, the tension in his shoulders unraveling inch by inch. Her fingers still rested in his locs, absently twisting the ends.
"You're gonna crush me," she said.
He grunted but didn't move.
"Kash. I can't breathe."
"You can breathe fine." His voice was muffled against her skin. "You're just complaining."
"I'm not complaining. I'm stating a fact. There's a difference."
He lifted his head, and for the first time in a week, she saw something other than ice in his eyes. Something tired. Something almost human. He looked at her like she was a question he'd been trying to answer for years.
"I missed you," he said.
"You saw me three days ago."
"I saw you through a camera. That's not the same thing."
She pushed at his chest until he shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling her with him. They fit together on the couch the way they always had—her back against his chest, his arm draped over her waist, his breath warm on the back of her neck. The position was familiar. Comfortable. Dangerous, in the way that anything comfortable became when you knew it could be taken away.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept?"
He didn't answer. That was answer enough.
She turned in his arms, facing him, her nose almost touching his. Up close, she could see the damage—the dark circles, the lines around his mouth, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching like he was grinding his teeth. He was coming apart at the seams, and he was trying to hide it from her.
"Talk to me," she said.
"I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"I mean I can't." His hand found her hip, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. "The less you know, the safer you are. That's not me being controlling. That's me being practical."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that keeping her in the dark didn't make her safe—it made her blind. But she'd seen the fear in his eyes earlier, the way his hands had shaken when he'd touched her. Whatever was happening out there, it was bad. Bad enough to crack the armor he'd spent twenty years building.
"Fine," she said. "Don't tell me. But you're gonna eat something, and you're gonna take a shower, and you're gonna sleep for at least six hours. That's not negotiable."
"I don't need—"
"I said it's not negotiable, Kash."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then something shifted in his expression—a crack in the facade, a glimpse of the man underneath the kingpin. He nodded, just once, and let her pull him off the couch.
She led him to the bathroom, the one she'd redone herself with the money from her first year at the salon. Black subway tile. Brass fixtures. A clawfoot tub she'd found at an estate sale and restored over three weekends. It wasn't the marble cathedral he had at the mansion, but it was hers.
She turned on the shower and stripped him down. His suit jacket first, then the vest underneath, then the shirt. She unbuttoned each button slowly, deliberately, her fingers brushing against his chest with every pass. He watched her with those hazel eyes, unreadable and intense.
"You don't have to do this," he said.
"I know."
She pushed the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall. His chest was a roadmap of scars—some old, some fresh. She traced them with her fingertips, learning him all over again. The bullet wound from three years ago. The knife scar from a deal gone wrong in Atlanta. The new ones, still pink and healing, that she didn't ask about.
She knelt to unlace his shoes, then pulled off his socks. His belt came next, then his pants, then his boxers. He stood there naked in her bathroom, and for a moment he wasn't Kash King, the most feared man in the Carolinas. He was just a man. Tired. Broken. Hers.
She stepped back and pulled off her own clothes—the hoodie she'd been living in for days, the leggings he'd already ruined. Her body was different from the last time he'd seen it naked in good light. Softer. The curves he loved were still there, but there were new bruises on her hips, new marks on her thighs. Evidence of him.
He reached for her, but she caught his wrist.
"Shower first," she said. "Then food. Then sleep."
"I don't want to sleep."
"Too bad."
He stepped into the shower, and she followed. The water was hot—almost too hot—and it sluiced over their bodies, washing away the sweat and the sex and the evidence of the last hour. She poured shampoo into her palms and reached up to wash his locs, working the lather through each strand with careful fingers.
He closed his eyes and let her. Let her touch him without demands, without expectations. Let her take care of him in a way no one else ever had.
"You're gonna leave me," he said quietly.
The words hit her like a slap.
"What?"
"After this is over. When I fix it. You're gonna leave."
She stopped washing his hair, her hands stilling against his scalp. "Why would you say that?"
"Because I saw your face when you read that note. Because I know what I did to you this morning—a week ago, whatever. Because you deserve better than this."
She turned him around to face her, her hands on his chest, the water streaming down between them. "You don't get to decide what I deserve."
"I'm not deciding. I'm just—"
"You're just scared." She pressed her palm flat against his heart. "I know scared, Kash. I've been scared my whole life. But I'm not leaving you."
He looked at her like he wanted to believe her. Like believing her was the most dangerous thing he could do.
"I love you," she said. "I don't know how to stop. Even when you're an asshole. Even when you fuck me like I'm a stranger. Even when you send me groceries and spy on me through cameras like some kind of psycho."
A laugh escaped him—short, surprised, almost painful. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."
"Shut up."
She kissed him. Soft this time. Slow. The kind of kiss that said more than words ever could. He kissed her back, his hands finding her waist, her hips, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The water pounded against them, steam rising, and she felt his cock hardening against her thigh.
"Thought you said sleep," he murmured against her mouth.
"I changed my mind."
He lifted her without warning, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back hitting the cold tile. She gasped at the contrast—hot water, cold wall, his burning skin. He positioned himself at her entrance, teasing, and she dug her nails into his shoulders.
"Don't you dare tease me right now."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll finish myself and leave you standing here with your dick in your hand."
He laughed again—that same broken, surprised sound—and drove into her. No preamble. No warning. Just the raw, wet heat of him filling her completely. She cried out, her head falling back against the tile, and he fucked her against the wall with a desperation that bordered on worship.
"You feel like home," he said, his voice rough. "You're the only thing that feels like home."
She couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Could only hold on as he pounded into her, his hips slamming against hers, the water cascading over both of them. Her orgasm built fast—faster than she expected—and when it hit, she clenched around him, her whole body shaking.
He followed a heartbeat later, spilling inside her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep. He held himself there, buried inside her, his forehead pressed to hers, both of them gasping for air.
"I'm gonna fix this," he said. "I'm gonna make it right."
"I know."
"And then I'm gonna give you the life you deserve. The one you've been waiting for."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that after all the blood and the fear and the sleepless nights, there was something waiting on the other side. Something soft. Something safe.
But she'd learned a long time ago not to trust promises. Even the ones that came from the man she loved.
He set her down gently, and they finished the shower in silence. She wrapped him in a towel, then herself, and led him to her bedroom. The sheets were clean—she'd changed them three days ago and hadn't slept in them since. He fell onto the bed like a man who'd been holding himself upright for months.
She climbed in beside him, her body curling into his like it had always belonged there. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, and within minutes his breathing slowed. He was asleep.
She listened to him for a while—the soft rhythm of his breath, the occasional twitch of his muscles. She thought about the note. The cameras. The week of isolation. She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he said he was losing everything.
She thought about the fact that he'd said he was going to fix it.
And she wondered what "fixing it" would cost.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it carefully, not wanting to wake him.
Jayla: Girl where the hell are you. Tasha said you haven't been to the shop in a week. If you don't text me back in the next 10 minutes I'm calling the police.
Amber stared at the message. Ten minutes. She had ten minutes to decide what to tell her best friend. Ten minutes to figure out how much of the truth she could afford to share.
She looked at Kash, sleeping beside her like a man who hadn't slept in years. She thought about the cameras in her kitchen. The note that said "I'm watching." The way he'd said "okay" when she told him she was staying.
He'd agreed too fast.
She typed a quick reply.
I'm fine. Just taking a break. Don't call the police. I'll explain later.
She hit send and set the phone back down.
The bedroom was quiet. The streetlights cast shadows through the curtains. And Amber lay there, wide awake, listening to the man she loved breathe, wondering if she'd just made a deal with the devil or if she'd finally found her way home.
She didn't know.
That was the problem.
She didn't know anything anymore—except that she was in too deep to turn back now. The water was rising. The walls were closing in. And whatever happened next, she'd face it the way she'd faced everything else.
Head up. Nails sharp. Heart guarded.
Ready for war.