Page 17 of Rose

She didn’t know it yet, but tonight, Ahzii was chaos incarnate. And Savior? He was ready to protect it. With everything.

Savior—no, Khaos —sat on a worn-down couch, legs stretched long, one size 15 boot resting on a coffee table that looked one breath away from collapse.

The tiny TV flickered in front of him, screen so small it looked more like a tablet than a television.

A crime documentary played, its tinny volume battling the silence.

Khaos watched it like he was at home in front of his 85-inch screen with the sound bar shaking the walls. Comfortable. Unbothered. Deadly.

The house reeked of cheap bourbon, cigarette smoke, and despair. The walls were yellowed, stained by time and poor decisions. Microwave dinners littered the counter. It was the kind of space that had seen more fistfights and liquor bottles than sunlight.

And Khaos? He wasn’t focused on the life he was about to take.

His mind was elsewhere.

On her .

The creak of the front door snapped him out of it. Right on cue.

“Man, I ain’t cheating on you! Chill with that insecure shit,” a voice barked from the hallway. Loud. Careless. Full of liquor and ego. Khaos didn’t flinch. Just kept watching the screen, his body still, calm as a lake before a storm.

Footsteps drew closer. Heavy. Sloppy. Then silence.

Khaos smirked.

The man had seen him.

“Hold up, bitch. I’ma call you back,” Bernard stammered, voice cracking.

“You love calling women bitches, huh?” Khaos asked, still locked in on the screen. His tone? Ice-cold. Flat. The kind of calm that came before something unspeakable.

Bernard stepped further in, but stayed close to the wall, like touching furniture might anger the devil in his living room.

“Khaos?” he croaked, voice small now.

Khaos didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. “So you do know who I am.”

Bernard didn’t answer, but the fear in his eyes was answer enough. He’d heard the stories. Maybe even seen the aftermath. Savior Carter, the ghost in the dark. Miami’ walking death sentence.

“Sit down, nigga.” Khaos finally turned his head, slow. “Let’s chat. You clearly need a lesson on how to talk to women.”

Bernard hesitated, eyes darting toward the exit like that would save him.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” Khaos said, eyes already back on the screen like the documentary was more interesting than him.

Reluctantly, Bernard shuffled forward and dropped onto the far end of the couch. Khaos stood, walked over, and sat right next to him. Close enough to feel his fear radiate off his skin like heat.

The man smelled like sweat, smoke, and the bottom of a bourbon bottle. His clothes were rumpled, stale, but his lineup was fresh—typical. Prioritized appearances over morals. Over respect.

Khaos glanced at him, studying him the way he studied targets in war. Bernard’s hands trembled in his lap. His eyes darted around like he didn’t even live here.

“Comfortable?” Khaos asked, voice low, almost amused.

Bernard swallowed, but didn’t answer.

“Didn’t think so.”

Khaos leaned back, one arm slung over the couch as the documentary played on. But this wasn’t about TV.

This was the lesson .

And class had just begun.

“You looked at the wrong woman today, Bernard,” Khaos said low, voice steady as stone. Still didn’t look at him.

“And you did more than look,” he added, his tone sharpening like a blade. “You tried to get her number... couldn’t take no for an answer. And did it all in front of her husband.”

He knew how insane that sounded. Khaos wasn’t her husband.

Hell, he barely knew anything about her besides her name and that she was Mazi’s sister.

But that didn’t matter. Ever since he laid eyes on her through the barbershop glass, she’d been stuck in his chest like a bullet that never came out.

When he held her in his arms, felt her tremble, saw those tears streak her face—something in him cracked open.

And now? He was about to kill a man over her.

That thought alone should’ve made him stop.

But it didn’t.

Where the fuck did she come from? What happened to her? What’s her favorite color? Her story? Her ring size?

“My bad... I-I didn’t know she was your bit—”

BANG.

The Glock fired before the word finished leaving his mouth. The bullet shattered his foot. His scream tore through the room, sharp and ugly, ricocheting off yellow-stained walls.

Right on cue, two of Khaos’ cleanup men walked in, calm and collected, like they’d been waiting just outside the whole time. No reaction to the screaming. No questions.

Khaos stood, pulled out his phone, and pointed the camera toward Bernard’s writhing body.

“Shut the fuck up, pussy.”

The scream faded into choked sobs, the man clutching his mangled foot, eyes wide with terror.

“Now look at the camera,” Khaos said, his voice suddenly quiet. Controlled. Dangerous. “And apologize to my wife.”

He didn’t flinch at the word.

Even his men blinked, confused—but they didn’t dare ask. Khaos’ word was law.

The phone camera lit up with a cold flash.

“I’m sorry... shit, I’m sorry,” Bernard groaned, eyes frantic.

Bang .

The second shot rang out, tearing through the other foot. Bernard’s scream pitched even higher. The video stopped.

Khaos didn’t move.

“Say her fucking name,” he growled. “You called her a bitch. That ain’t what her mother named her.”

The man blinked through his agony. “I-I don’t... I don’t know her name.”

“You wanted her number... and didn’t even ask for her name?” Khaos shook his head slowly, his disgust genuine. “It’s pussies like you that make good men look bad.”

Bernard sobbed. “Please. Please.”

“It’s Ahzii Carter , nigga,” Khaos said, a twisted smile forming on his lips.

The name sounded right. Too right .

He knew he sounded crazy—claiming her, protecting her, hurting men for her. But he didn’t care.

She stirred something in him he didn’t know existed. And now? He wanted to know everything about her.

And maybe, just maybe...

Spend forever doing it.

“Now we gonna try this shit again,” Khaos said coldly, starting the recording once more.

Bernard trembled, blood streaking his face, eyes red and drowning in fear.

“I... I sincerely apologize, Mrs. Ahzii Carter,” he croaked, tears spilling as he struggled to stay upright. “You’re not a bitch. You’re a beautiful, smart, Black queen.”

Click. The video ended.

Khaos pocketed the phone.

Then shot him in the knee.

The scream that followed ripped through the walls, louder than the gunshot. Bernard clutched his leg, body convulsing in agony.

Khaos tilted his head, almost curious. “Did you just call my wife beautiful ?”

There was no time for Bernard to explain. To correct himself. To beg.

Bang .

A single shot silenced everything. Right between the eyes.

Khaos stared at the body—empty, useless—and holstered his weapon like he’d just finished a job, not a life.

“Clean this shit up,” he said to his men, tone sharp but calm. “I’m buying this run-down dump and renovating it. Put it on the market for cheap. Find a good family who needs it—someone who’ll treat it better than this sorry nigga did.”

That was the paradox of him. Khaos could take a life without blinking... and still think of giving someone else a home.

Because buried under the blood, behind the bullets, was still Savior —a man with a soul trying not to drown in the darkness.

He paused at the door. Whispered a quiet prayer for Bernard’s mother.

Then vanished. Ghostlike. By the time the city blinked again, Khaos was gone—cutting through the night toward his estate. Another soul taken.

But the only thing on his mind?

Ahzii.

Not the screams. Not the blood.

Her.

He needed to see her again. And this time... he wouldn't just be protecting her.

He’d be claiming her.