Page 77 of Cannon

“Listen to me,” I said, pulling back just enough to look into Queen’s eyes. “That’s not your cross to carry. That’s your mother’s sin, not yours.”

“But I pulled the trigger,” she argued, her voice breaking.

“You were protecting your mother. You were a child who thought someone you loved was in danger.” I cupped her face in my bandaged hands. “Any one of us would’ve done the same thing.”

She shook her head, not believing me. “I should’ve known better. She’d used me so many times before?—”

“Stop,” I cut her off. “You meant well. You were being a protector. That’s who you are, you protect the people you care about, even when they don’t deserve it.”

Queen’s shoulders sagged as years of guilt seemed to weigh her down. I recognized that burden; I’d carried similar ones.

“But now,” I continued, my voice dropping lower, “it’s time to let someone else protect you for a change.”

She looked up at me, confusion and something like hope flickering in her eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying let me carry this for you. I’m handling Smoke. Let me be the one who makes sure nothing touches what’s mine.” The possessiveness in my voice surprised even me, but I meant every word. “You’ve been fighting alone long enough, Queen.”

“I don’t know how to stop fighting,” she admitted, her voice small. “I don’t know how to let someone else take control.”

“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are,” I said, brushing a tear from her cheek with my thumb. “Just make room for me to stand beside you. Behind you when you need backup. In front of you when there’s danger.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into my touch. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Of what?”

“Of letting someone in. Of trusting someone else to have my back.” Her eyes opened, raw with honesty. “Every time I’ve trusted someone, they’ve either betrayed me or left me.”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” I promised, and I meant it more than I’d meant anything in a long time. And that shook me to my core.

Chapter 30

Queen

I let Cannon lead me out of the bathroom, his bandaged hand still holding mine like I might slip away if he let go. The confession still hung in the air between us, raw and bloody as a fresh wound. I’d never told anyone about Alfred Dixon before, not Nori, not my ex-husband, not a single soul. But somehow, telling Cannon felt like setting down a weight I’d been carrying for decades.

“You need a drink,” I said, more statement than question.

His ocean-blue eyes met mine. “After all that? Fuck yeah.”

I led him to the living room. The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of music drifting from my Bose speaker. I pulled out a bottle of Hennessy from the cabinet and poured us each a generous glass.

“To fucked-up childhoods,” I said, raising my glass.

Cannon’s lips curved into that half-smile that made my stomach flip. “And surviving them.”

We clinked glasses and I felt the burn of cognac slide down my throat, warming me from the inside. Something had shifted between us in that bathroom, something deeper than just sex or attraction. I’d shown him my ugliest truth, and he hadn’t flinched.

“You hungry?” I asked, suddenly needing to do something normal, something that would ground us both back in the present instead of our ghosts.

“Why?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “You about to cook?”

“Yes,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I can throw something together.”

He snorted, those blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “You know damn well you can’t really cook.”

“Excuse me?” I put my hand on my hip, indignation rising. “How would you know that? You’ve never tasted my food.”

“Intuition,” he said simply, tapping his temple. “I can just tell.”