Page 23

ALLURE

The next morning when I stirred awake, the sunlight was just beginning to peek through the curtains, casting soft, golden stripes across the hardwood floor. The sheets were still warm beside me, but the bed was empty.

Riot was already gone.

For a moment, I just lay there, letting my eyes drift across the room—the tall windows, the sleek dresser, the faint scent of him still lingering on the pillow next to mine. I turned over, pressing my face into that scent, then flopped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling.

Last night replayed behind my eyelids like a dream I didn’t want to wake from.

Our kiss.

Our bodies, bare and glistening under moonlight, pressed together in that pool like we were the only two people left in the world.

I thought about his lips on mine, warm and sure. The feel of his hands on my waist. The way the water wrapped around us as if it were blessing our moment. I’d never been kissed like that. Not with tenderness. Not with restraint. And never in a way that made me feel like I was in control.

It felt so wrong and so right at the same time.

Wrong, because I barely knew him. Because just days ago, I was nothing more than a kept girl in a house. My body had been my own in name only. My choices were illusions. My voice, an echo no one heard.

But with Riot…

With Riot, I felt something I hadn’t felt in ten years.

Free.

Not just in the physical sense, but emotionally. Spiritually. My heart wasn’t beating in a cage anymore. It was beating for me.

And that pool, that moment in the dark with him, it didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a reclamation.

Our naked bodies in the water didn’t make me feel ashamed or exposed. They made me feel bold. Like the girl I could’ve been if I’d never been taken. Like the woman I was becoming now. My scars hadn’t disappeared, but for the first time, they didn’t feel so heavy.

Boaz and that house of horrors felt distant. Like a chapter from someone else’s life.

Even the grief over my father, which had swallowed me whole just yesterday, didn’t feel as sharp. It was still there—tight in my chest—but dulled somehow, like Riot had wrapped it in warmth and pressed it gently into the background.

I knew I should be more cautious.

I should be afraid of what all this meant—what I was feeling.

But lying in his bed, in one of his oversized shirts, in a home that smelled nothing like fear…

All I wanted to do was fall.

And maybe, just maybe, let him catch me.

After a while, I finally pulled myself up and headed for the shower.

My body still buzzed with the memory of last night—the weight of Riot’s chest against mine, the warmth of the water, the way he held me like I was something fragile and sacred.

But what snuck up on me most was the thought of his dick.

God.

I hadn’t seen many—maybe one or two in my whole life—but his? I didn’t even need to look to know it was big. I felt it. Pressed against me beneath the water, heavy and thick, making it impossible to ignore. The memory alone made heat pulse between my thighs.

It wasn’t just the size. It was the presence of it. The promise.

That ache between my thighs stirred again as I stepped under the stream of hot water, letting it rush over my skin. I bit my lip, closing my eyes, trying not to replay the feeling of his hands on my waist, his lips brushing mine, the slow roll of restraint in his voice when he told me no.

He wanted me.

But he didn’t take.

And somehow, that made me want him even more.

The bathroom was warm with steam as I stepped out of the shower, skin flushed and scrubbed clean. I wrapped a plush towel around my body and another around my hair, then walked barefoot back into the bedroom. The air felt lighter today, less haunted.

On the bench at the foot of the bed sat the shopping bags Riot brought in last night—crisp, glossy, with the kind of high-end branding that my father had gotten me accustomed to before I was kidnapped.

I opened the first bag and gasped softly.

Color.

So much color.

Soft cotton joggers in blush and lavender. Fitted crop tops in shades of caramel and moss. A silky green two-piece set that shimmered like oil in the light. Jeans with stretch. Rompers. Wrap dresses. A burnt orange hoodie so plush it felt like a hug.

For ten years, I only wore white. Every day. Every week. Every month. A uniform of purity that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with control. Seeing these clothes, with their boldness and texture and warmth, felt like breathing in technicolor.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, then held a dress to my chest and caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a stranger. But the good kind. The kind you wanted to know better.

“I didn’t know your style, so I just grabbed a little bit of everything.”

I turned.

Riot was standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes slid down my towel-wrapped frame, then back up to my face—never lingering too long, never crossing that line.

Still, my pulse skipped.

“I love it,” I said, smiling for real. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Figured you might want some options. You don’t gotta wear my sweats forever.”

I laughed. “Even though they’re comfy as hell.”

“They look good on you, but now you’ve got stuff that’s all yours.”

There was a brief pause, and then he rubbed his jaw. “I gotta go check on my mom. She hasn’t been doing too well lately.”

My smile faltered just slightly. “Is she sick?”

“Something has been off and I gotta go see about her.” He exhaled.

“Do you want company?” I asked.

He raised a brow, surprised. “You tryna ride with me?”

“I could use some fresh air. Get out the compound for a bit.”

“Aight. Cool. I just gotta make a few calls first.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Take your time. We’ll head out in a bit.”

He disappeared down the hall, and I let the towel drop to get dressed.

I chose a pink dress that highlighted the shimmering undertones of my dark skin. The fabric hugged my body in all the right places. I ran a brush through my hair, then wrapped it in the silk scarf Abra must’ve picked out, and slipped on the new Tory Birch slides sitting in one of the bags.

Then I turned my attention to the iPhone Riot left charging for me.

It powered up instantly, the screen clean and untouched. I took a deep breath and set it up, hands trembling slightly as I logged in and created a new Apple ID. New email. New number. New identity.

This was my first connection to the outside world in ten years.

I opened Facebook and logged into my fake profiles that I created yesterday. My mother wasn’t on Facebook consistently but I had other family members I could reach out to. My fingers hovered over the search bar. I typed in my cousin’s name, Diori Jones.

Dozens of profiles appeared. I narrowed it down by city, by mutual friends, by age.

Finally, I found one that looked right. Her profile was public, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw a recent selfie. Same almond-shaped eyes. Same full lips. I would’ve known her anywhere.

I clicked Message .

Hey… I don’t know if you’ll believe this. But it’s Allure. I’m alive. Please don’t freak out. I need help getting in contact with my mom… or Carmelo. Can you help me? Please?

I hit send before I could overthink it.

Then I sat there, phone in hand, heart racing, waiting for a response.

And for the first time, hope didn’t feel like a curse.

It felt like the start of something real.