Page 134 of Lennox Lane

When he was spent and shaking and barely able to stand—she rose and he caught her. He was kissing her deeply and tasting himself on her tongue. He carried her out of the shower, and they dried each other with shaking hands.

They made it to the bed finally—sheets turned down, pillows soft, the skyline still watching through the windows but softer now. Lennox pulled Lane into his arms with her back to his chest and her body fitting against him like she’d been carved from his missing pieces.

She fell asleep quickly. Fully satiated, claimed, and safe.

Lennox stayed awake a little longer, whispering his adoration into her hair, kissing her softly—her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear. He told her she was loved. She was his, she was safe, and she was everything. He promised her tomorrow, and the day after and all the days he had left to give.

Outside, Winston Hills glittered on, indifferent to the love being made in its luxury hotel towers, but Lennox didn’t need the city to witness anymore. He had her and she had him, and that was enough.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NEUTRALIZED THREATS

Afew weeks after Winston Hills, Lennox Jackson had to admit something deeply inconvenient to his pride. Being Lane Sanders’s man suited him—not in the ego-stroking way men liked to claim a woman because possession sounded better than devotion, but in a way that revealed his growing emotional investment. Not in the shallow way of having somebody fine on his arm, though Lane was fine enough to make strangers lose motor function and basic manners.

It suited him in a way that made him wonder why he’d wasted so much time pretending distance was wisdom. Life as her man, and her man only, had settled him with infuriating ease.

He liked knowing where she was because she told him now, not because he had to find out. He liked picking up the phone and hearing, “Robot, I need you to talk me out of cussing this grant reviewer clean into a new religion.” He liked showing up at The Full Plate Project with coffee, staying out of the way unless asked, and still somehow ending up unloading crates because Ms. Cora had decided his shoulders were community property. He liked being claimed by her in public, though Lane rarely made it too sweet.

“This is Lennox,” she’d told a donor last week. “My man, unfortunately.”

The unfortunately had been for balance, and he loved it. He loved the way she’d started reaching for him without overthinking every movement, like the subtle brush of her foot under the table or her casual touch on his arm. The way her foot found his leg under tables. The way she still threatened him with consequences, but now kissed him afterward as if the threats were normal. He was honored that she let him hold her on the nights Jeanette’s calls left her too quiet. Lane’s mother had stayed in treatment and that mattered to Lane more than she let most people know.

It mattered to Lennox too, though he didn’t fully trust Jeanette Sanders to do right by Lane. She was trying, that much he’d give her. Trying wasn’t redemption, but it was better than the manipulation and threats. Better than disappearing again because accountability had gotten uncomfortable.

Lane knew Lennox still checked with the facility director twice a week because She’d permitted him to monitor for her peace of mind and Jeanette’s safety. That permission didn’t include hovering, so he kept his involvement limited, ethical, and quiet enough that it didn’t make Lane feel like her mother’s recovery had become another room where Lennox took control.

Growth was irritating as hell. Still, every good thing between him and Lane carried a shadow he hadn’t fully outrun.

His parents.

Mielle and Jason Jackson had taught Lennox too much about what happened when love became leverage and marriage became a gilded hostage situation. He’d grown up watching his father parade betrayal through their house while calling it provision. He’d watched his mother stay because marble floors, private schools, and society respectability formed a prettier cage than poverty ever could.

He’d sworn never to be his father, spending years using that vow as an excuse to never belong to anyone deeply enough to fail them. Lane had ruined that excuse. Lane ruined a lot of things for his betterment.

That was why he’d started keeping closer tabs on Jason again. Not because he wanted contact, but last time Lennox had seen his father, he’d emptied Jason’s accounts with one tap just to remind him legacy had an expiration date when leverage entered the room. Since then, Jason had been too quiet.

Quiet from Jason Jackson was never peace.

It was preparation.

Lennox sat in his office late one night, after Lane had fallen asleep in his bed wearing one of his shirts and a smile. Three monitors glowed in front of him. He moved through shell companies, encrypted communication trails, consulting invoices, property acquisition records, and the kind of dirty paperwork men created when they thought obscurity was the same thing as protection.

That was when he found the connection.

Curtis Bell.

Lennox stilled.

Curtis, with his too-tight gray suit and oily threats disguised as transition consulting. Curtis, who had walked into The Full Plate Project and tried to convince Lane that moving vulnerable people away from access was progress if the new building had better parking. Curtis, who had been tied to the developers circling Lane’s building like vultures with zoning lawyers.

And Jason Jackson.

His father had been in contact with him for weeks.

Not casually.

Actively.