𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦

C.25

Valentine

The hallway smelled faintly of jasmine soap, the tiled floor cool beneath Valentine's bare feet. She leaned against the wall near the bathroom, arms folded tight across her chest, keeping her face smooth. Lyioris stood opposite her, watching like she could see every crack beneath the mask.

"You don't have to compete with me," Valentine said finally, voice clipped. "I'm not rejoining this family. So relax. You should thank God you didn't have to live the life I lived."

Lyioris tilted her head, hurt flickering across her face. "You think that makes it easier? Knowing my sister suffered while I had comfort?"

Valentine didn't answer, jaw tight.

"You don't scare me," Lyioris added, softer this time. "I see you. Even when you try to hide."

For half a second, Valentine felt the wall inside her chest shift. But then she straightened, clearing her throat. "Doesn't matter. This conversation's over."

She pushed past her, stalking down the hallway.

The sound of low voices drifted from the living room. Valentine slowed when she saw them—Aaleetia perched on the couch, Quincey beside her, their heads bent close in conversation. Her mother's hand rested lightly on his arm, and Quincey was listening with that patient warmth that had once made Valentine feel safe.

Something ugly twisted in her stomach.

"Quincey," she snapped, striding into the room. "We're leaving."

He looked up, startled, then gave her a cautious smile. "Val, your mom was just telling me—"

"I said we're leaving." She grabbed his wrist, yanking him up from the couch. Aaleetia's eyes widened, lips parting as if to say something, but Valentine didn't let her.

"Val—" Quincey tried, tugging against her hold. "Wait—"

"No," Valentine hissed, dragging him toward the door.

Valentine yanked Quincey's arm hard enough to nearly drag him off the couch. "We leavin'. Now."

He snatched his arm back, glaring. "Yo, what the fuck is wrong with you? She ain't do shit but talk."

"Talk?" Valentine barked, her laugh jagged. "You sittin' here cozy with her like she some saint. Like she didn't leave me to rot."

"Val—cut that shit out."

"Cut what out?" she shot back, stepping into him. "You don't get it. You don't know what the fuck that felt like."

His voice boomed now. "I been here! Every breakdown, every night you cryin' on the bathroom floor—who the fuck you think was holdin' you up?"

She jabbed his chest, her nails digging through his shirt. "Please. You didn't hold me up. You just benefitted. You think you know me, but you don't know shit, Quincey."

His face hardened, a flash of Harlem steel cutting through. "Say that again."

"You don't know me!" she screamed. "You just some Harlem nigga who thinks dick and patience make him a savior!"

Everything in him snapped.

Quincey's whole body shifted—shoulders squared, chest rising slow, eyes dark and dangerous. He stepped into her space so hard she staggered back against the wall. The air between them charged, heavy.

His voice dropped low, lethal. "Watch your fuckin' mouth when you talk to me."

Valentine's pulse spiked. Her chest rose and fell quick, heart pounding. He was towering over her now, the heat of his breath ghosting her cheek, eyes locked sharp on hers. Menacing. Commanding. And God help her—sexy as hell.