Blinded

Chapter 7

KAYLA POV

I stretched across Andre's bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin. The air smelled like his cologne—deep, woodsy, something expensive. Being in his house had started to feel too familiar. Like I'd been here longer than I actually had. Maybe it was the way his things were everywhere, or the fact that I hadn't been home since my mom called from New York and said she'd be gone for a month. I told myself it'd be temporary. Just a few days at most. But now, my toothbrush had its own spot next to his. My curls left behind little strands on his pillowcases. His home was starting to feel like mine, and that scared me just a little.

Andre wasn't home yet. He said he had some "errands" to run, but I knew what that meant. I didn't ask questions anymore. Not like I used to. Every time I brought it up, he'd either change the subject or brush it off with a kiss and a slick, "Don't worry ya pretty little head about that, ma."

But something had shifted lately. He was... watching me more. Not in a creepy way, but in a possessive way. Like he was mentally claiming every inch of me, every outfit I wore, every guy who so much as glanced in my direction.

And there were plenty of them. Being around his friends was like walking through a spotlight. I wasn't tryna flirt, but when I walked into a room? Heads turned. That's just how it was. My hair was pulled half-up today, slicked and curly in the back, bouncing as I moved through the house. My shorts were a little too short, and I knew what it did when I wore them. I wasn't dumb. I'm short—like really short—so it just made the curve of my thighs hit different. And my eyes? Andre called them "trouble." Hazel green, bright like spring, and every time one of his boys made eye contact with me, they lingered a little too long.

They'd flirt. Light stuff. "You sure you Andre's girl?" or "He lucky as hell." I'd laugh, roll my eyes, toss a little sass their way—nothing serious—but Andre hated it. I could feel his stare cut through the air like a knife.

Today, it got worse.

I was in the kitchen pouring myself a glass of lemonade when Jay—his homeboy from uptown—walked in. He leaned against the counter all cocky. "Damn, Kayla, you really be out here glowin'. What's your skincare routine, baby girl?"

I smirked. "Confidence and shea butter," I said, flipping my curls over my shoulder.

He laughed. "Yeah, I see that. If Dre ever mess up..."

"Jay," Andre's voice sliced through the room like ice.

We both turned. Andre was standing in the doorway, jaw clenched, eyes hard. The air got thick fast. He didn't even say anything else. Just walked over, took the lemonade out of my hand, and set it on the counter like it offended him. Then he grabbed my wrist—not hard, but firm—and pulled me toward the stairs.

"Come here."

"Dre, chill—"

"I said come here, Kayla."

My chest fluttered. Half nerves. Half... something else.

We ended up in his room. The door shut behind us. He turned to face me, arms crossed.

"You like that shit?" he asked. "You like them looking at you like that?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You think I asked for that? I was just being nice. He's your friend, not mine."

"He's not your anything."

That stopped me.

"You mine," he added, stepping in close, eyes burning into mine. "I don't want you laughing at nobody else's jokes, I don't want you playing cute for nobody. You hear me, mama?"