Page 2

Xenobia Hawthorne

W ho the fuck does he think he is, coming back into my life after six years? Just walking around my house and talking to me as if nothing ever happened?

I was beyond pissed. I didn’t know if I was madder that I hadn’t seen Adonis since the ambush or that he somehow was still the closest thing to my icy heart after all this time. My heart almost leaped from my chest when my eyes landed on his. He still had the power to snatch my breath straight from my lungs. Still, I hated his handsome ass, for good reason too.

When I woke up in the hospital after surviving a brutal attack, he wasn’t there.

When we buried my mother and brother, he wasn’t there.

When I asked my father where Adonis was, he said we would never speak of him again, all for him to be standing in his study six years later, and I needed answers.

The oak door cracked open beneath my palm as I burst into my father’s study. My fury sizzled like lightning, scorching everything in its path.

“What the hell were you thinking, making Adonis my bodyguard?” I snarled, slamming my hands on his massive desk. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

He didn’t even flinch. He just sat there, cool as ice, those stern, chocolate-brown eyes boring into me.

“It’s for your protection, Xenobia,” he replied, voice soft but unyielding as iron.

“Bullshit,” I spat. “I don’t need a watchdog. I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m twenty-four years old. I can take care of myself.”

But even as the words left my mouth, phantom pain bloomed across the scars chiseled into my skin. Reminders of how close I’d come to death. How fragile my human form truly was.

Daddy’s full lips thinned. “The Toussaints are moving against us. We can’t trust anyone right now. We can only trust family.”

“So you stick me with Adonis?” My laugh was bitter, bordering on hysterical. “He’s not even real family, more like the adopted orphan you opened your doors to when his mother was killed. Plus, the guy’s a stiff. He’s going to get in my way and cramp my style.”

“With Santo gone and me in and out of the state on business, he’s the only one I trust completely,” my father admitted. His gaze softened a fraction. “Please, Xenobia. Let him keep you safe.”

I wanted to scream, rage, and shatter every priceless antique in this mausoleum of an office. But the fight drained out of me, leaving only a bone-deep weariness.

“Fine,” I muttered, turning away so he wouldn’t see the tears stinging my eyes. “But don’t expect me to like it.”

As I stormed out, I felt the walls closing in, my cage tightening its grip. And worst of all, a traitorous part of me whispered that maybe I didn’t mind having Adonis watch over me. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d loved him once upon a time. More than a young girl should’ve loved her brother’s best friend. But after I was attacked, he disappeared, leaving me to rot here all alone.

I slammed the office door behind me, my heart pounding like a caged rabbit. The hallway stretched before me, all polished marble and priceless art, practically a museum of our family’s power. And here I was, just another pretty, powerless exhibit.

“Fuck this,” I muttered, my voice echoing off the cold stone. I needed to get out, breathe, and remember who I was beyond the scars and the Hawthorne surname.

My feet carried me down familiar paths, past watchful guards who tried to hide their pity. Poor little Nobi, always running away . If only they knew the storms that raged inside me. I burst into my studio, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. It was my sanctuary, my escape. But even within the privacy of these walls, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I could smell Adonis’s scent and knew he’d been here. Probably still was.

“Dammit, Adonis,” I hissed, spinning around. But the doorway was empty. Of course it was. He was too good to be caught so easily.

As my father’s only daughter, growing up in a house with not one but two pre-teenager tormentors was never my idea of a good time. My childhood was nothing short of overprotective chaos. The mansion was always buzzing with conversation, stamping feet down the polished staircase, and sometimes even heated arguments echoing through my father’s study walls. Santo, my older brother, had always been overly protective and often acted as my second father, ensuring I was safe from the cruel truth of our family’s deadly mafia ties. Having Adonis around only added another layer of excessive protection.

Although all my material needs were provided for, and then some, anything emotional that might’ve led to my happiness or someone getting to know me was nonexistent. Simple things like my likes and dislikes were of little to no interest to my parents, and mostly, all of my academic achievements had gone unnoticed throughout my school-age days. My father’s business deals always came first. The only thing I got was the art studio after the accident. I didn’t know if it was more of a consolation prize for surviving or a pacifier over the grief of losing my mother and brother, but I still loved it.

Without a second thought, I grabbed a paintbrush, attacking a blank canvas with furious, aggressive strokes—red, black, violent slashes of color, each a scream I couldn’t voice. Art allowed me to express all my pent-up emotions and frustrations in a way that words could never do. It was my therapy, helping me process the trauma and heartbreak from my past and giving me the constant structure I needed to keep the dark thoughts from taking over.

“I’m not some fucking damsel,” I growled to the empty room. “I’m not weak.”

But the lies tasted bitter on my tongue. Because deep down, in the darkest corners of my soul, I knew the truth. I was afraid, terrified of the violence that lurked just beyond our walls. I hated myself for that weakness, and a tiny part of me was glad to have Adonis’s watchful gaze around to keep the monsters at bay.

I stepped back, wiping sweat from my brow, leaving a smear of crimson paint across my skin. The painting before me was chaos, a storm of emotions I couldn’t control, just like my life. Growing up in an environment where trust was rare, my art became the only thing I trusted. The simplicity of putting my brush against a blank canvas and being in the driver’s seat to create whatever my heart desired gave me a sense of freedom and control that was otherwise unavailable in my life. Through my art, I could momentarily transport myself away from the weight of my family’s blood-stained legacy and into my safe haven.

“Fuck,” I muttered, tossing the brush aside. It clattered to the floor, splattering paint like blood.

That’s when I felt it—the weight of his gaze. I didn’t need to turn to know Adonis was there, silent as a shadow in the doorway.

“Come to make sure I don’t run away?” I spat, refusing to face him.

His voice was low, steady. “You know why I’m here, Xenobia.”

My scoffing laugh extinguished in a crackle of heat. “Yeah, thanks for that reminder. Now I can’t get the fuck away from you.”

My fingers traced the scars on my arm, memories of pain and fear carved into my skin. Adonis’s brown eyes followed the movement, making my stomach twist. I wore specific clothing and makeup to keep people from staring at the permanent scars I carried. They were a constant reminder of the time when danger slithered into our seemingly safe haven and blew up my life. It took a long time for me to stop looking at my marks as a form of punishment every time I faced my reflection in the mirror.

“You can’t protect me from everything,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

But in the silence that followed, I knew he’d heard. And for a moment, just a heartbeat, I let myself imagine what it would be like to feel genuinely safe in his arms again. To let him siphon away the pain and fear.

I spun around, masking my feelings with anger, letting it flare hot and bright. “Why are you back after all this time, Adonis? To babysit me? To report my every move to my father? To get rid of your guilt for turning your back on us after we took you in and never looking back?”

His expression remained blank, but I saw the tension in his jaw. “I’m back to protect you in your father’s absence. And no. I am not reporting to Don about your movements unless you go off the property.”

“It’s been one day, Adonis,” I said, stepping closer. “And it already feels like you’re suffocating me. Following me everywhere, watching my every move. Can I even take a shit without you being there to wipe my ass?”

Adonis’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained infuriatingly calm. “The threat is real, Xenobia. The Toussaint family—”

“Fuck the Toussaints!” I shouted, my paint-stained hands balling into fists. “I could die at any time, so what’s the point in worrying about safety?”

“You sound like a child.”

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.

Even with his attractive features, there were visible scars on his neck and collarbone, from what I assumed came from the night of the attack. Still, he carried himself with a confident, almost noble stance as if nothing could sway him. His militant posture was as straight as an arrow and exuded dominance and strength. Dressed in a tailored dark suit and crisp white button-up that fit him perfectly, he looked the part of someone who commanded respect and brandished authority like it came second nature to him.

I turned back to my painting, trying to ignore how violently my heart was pounding. “Just… go away, Adonis. Let me have this one thing to myself.”

His sigh was heavy with resignation. “No matter how many ways you put it, whether a question or a demand, you know I can’t do that. So, you might as well stop giving me all this extra static. You’re only wasting your breath and my time.”

“Yeah.” I muttered in defeat while staring back at my reflection in the wet paint. “I know.”