Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
INDIGO
Today’s the day. Malik is taking me hunting and I couldn’t be any more excited. The first blush of dawn paints the sky in colors of rose and gold, casting a romantic light over the dense woods. Malik and I climb into the sanctuary of the tree stand, moving with purpose, silent and deliberate, as we settle into our perch above the wood’s floor. The cool morning breeze carries the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the rustle of branches and unseen creatures.
I glance over at Malik. There’s something about the quiet moments that sharpens everything—every movement, every sound, every small detail. He’s a giant of a man—plus size in a way that makes him stand out, but there’s something about his stature that drives me wild. The way he moves with surprising grace, the way his broad shoulders flex as he readies his rifle—it’s all a careful dance between strength and restraint. He’s a beast, but he wears it so damn well.
I can’t help but watch him as he checks the scope, his hands steady, sure. He’s calm, focused, and a little too gorgeous for my own sanity. I can feel the rush building in me, the kind that comes with knowing what's coming next.
I watch his hands as he adjusts the rifle. The way he moves, precise and unhurried, reminds me of my own work. Not with a rifle, but with a blade. His patience, his unwavering focus—it’s almost beautiful. My hands twitch at the thought, an old hunger stirring beneath my skin. I know what it feels like to hold a life in my hands. The weight of it. The moment just before.
If Malik knew the things I’ve done, would he still look at me like I’m something soft?
I lean back against the wooden frame of the stand, my eyes never leaving him. I don’t know why I love him like this, but I do. Maybe it’s because in an event like this, right here in this moment, he’s more like me. The chase, the precision, the kill—it’s all too damn seductive.
"Ready?" he asks, voice low, though I can feel the anticipation thrumming through him.
"Always," I reply, the thrill of the moment sharp and dangerous.
A coyote emerges from the brush, its coat a muted blend with the landscape. Malik’s finger hovers over the trigger. Time slows. His body is a statue of tension, eyes locked on the prey.
I’m not sure if it’s the hunt, the man, or the way they both come together in this perfect harmony, but my heart is pounding in my chest. My pulse quickens as the world around us goes still.
Then, the rifle cracks through the silence, a sharp slice through the morning calm. The coyote falls. Malik remains frozen for a moment, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body below. I feel the sharpness of the moment, the intensity of his focus, as if he’s not just hunting but staking a claim.
Malik exhales, slow and steady, and I see it—his satisfaction. It’s not malice, not cruelty, but respect. Respect for the kill, respect for the hunt. His brow softens, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. This is him. The man beneath the surface—part gentle, part beast—and damn if it doesn’t make my blood burn hotter.
I watch as Malik starts to descend from the stand, his large frame moving with surprising fluidity. I follow, stepping lightly down the ladder, my steps barely making a sound. He’s heavy-footed, but there’s a grace to him that matches the intensity of his presence. I can feel the weight of the air between us. The hunt is over, but the tension lingers.
We approach the coyote, its tawny fur matted with dew, and I feel a wave of satisfaction, but it’s not the kind that anyone else would understand. There’s beauty in the death of this creature, in the rawness of the act. To others, it might be grotesque, but to me, it’s pure. It’s nature. It’s the truth.
“Right then,” Malik says, voice carrying that reverence I’ve come to expect from him. He unslings his pack, pulling out his tools, ready to clean the kill. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to flinch or hesitate, but I don’t do either.
I watch his hands again, the way he grips the knife, the ease with which he uses it. A clean cut, just beneath the skin, precise and practiced. I wonder if he knows how similar we are.
The thought makes my fingers twitch with the need to touch. To feel the weight of the knife, to take part in this, to let him see this side of me. I want to show him that I understand this. That I understand him.
“I want to help.”
His eyes snap up to meet mine, surprise flickering across his face. I don’t flinch. I don’t recoil. I just stare back, calm and collected. This is what I am. This is what I’ve always been. Nothing more, nothing less. The rawness doesn’t scare me. It excites me.
Malik doesn’t say anything at first. He just hands me a pair of gloves, his gaze steady, almost approving. He didn’t expect this from me—he’s always seen the flirty, silly side of me, but not the part that appreciates the intimate brutality of death.
“Alright,” he says, finally. “Let’s get started.”
His blade flashes in the early light, cutting through the coyote’s fur with a precision that would make a surgeon jealous. I watch, my fingers itching to join him. He talks as he works, explaining the process, his voice low and steady. “You want to be clean and quick.”
“Like separating the seams of a well-tailored suit,” I add, my voice smooth as silk. My eyes stay on the way the blade moves, how it slips through the fur, the muscle, the sinew. It’s an art form, and I’m learning to appreciate it even more with every second.
“Exactly,” Malik murmurs, his eyes meeting mine with an approval that sends a flicker of warmth through me. He guides my hand to the right place, his touch firm but not unkind. There’s something about the way he teaches me, as if he knows I can handle it, as if he’s giving me more than just the tools to survive—I can see it in his eyes. He’s showing me a side of him that few ever get to see.
And he doesn’t know it, but I’m showing him a side of me, too.
It’s intimate in its own right. The way he teaches me, the way we move together, our hands meeting on the coyote’s body, our breaths mingling in the cold air. Each moment feels like an unspoken promise. There’s power here, in this shared act of respect. We’re both creators and destroyers, honoring life through its end.
“You’re doing well,” Malik says, his voice a little rougher than before, a little more real. He’s impressed, and the compliment makes something inside me swell.
“Thanks,” I reply, my lips curling slightly. I don’t need much—just a glimpse of his approval, a quiet acknowledgment that I’m more than the city’s shadow. I’m a part of something bigger. Something raw. Something that knows no limits.
Together, we finish our work. The coyote is a carcass now, but its essence remains. It’s an offering to the cycle of nature, to life and death. As Malik and I pack up our tools, our eyes meet, and the bond between us deepens. There’s a shared understanding now, an intimacy that goes beyond the surface. It’s respect. It’s power. It’s something darker, something only we understand.
As we leave the woods, the sun crests the horizon. The world around us is waking, but I feel like I’m still caught in the quiet, still caught in the darkness we’ve just shared.
Malik walks a few paces ahead, the weight of the coyote slung over his shoulder, his broad frame cutting through the morning light like something carved from the earth itself. He belongs here. In this world of blood and breath, kill and creation.
And so do I.
But not in the same way.
I watch him, my mind still tangled in the thrill of the hunt, in the way his hands moved with the same steady precision I use when I work. The same patience. The same quiet power. I wonder if he realizes just how much we have in common.
Or how different our definitions of prey really are.
The thought flickers, sharp and unbidden, and I force it down before it can take root.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him.
And yet, I do.
We step out of the trees, back into the world where I have to pretend—where I have to be careful. Where I have to hide. Malik doesn’t know it, but he’s walking beside something dangerous. Something that doesn’t fit in this world he’s built, no matter how much I wish I did.
I glance at my hands, still stained with the remnants of the coyote’s blood, the scent of it thick in the air. A hunter’s mark. A killer’s signature.
For a split second, I imagine another scenario. Another hunt. A different kind of prey.
Not an animal.
A man.
My fingers twitch at the thought, muscle memory kicking in, my mind already pulling up shadows of past work. The way flesh gives beneath the right amount of pressure. The way bodies go slack when the life leaves them. The way silence feels different when it’s the kind you’ve created with your own hands.
I close my fists and breathe.
Not here. Not now.
Malik glances over his shoulder at me, smiling. I smile back, slow and easy, like nothing in the world is wrong.
Like I’m not fighting the darkness curling at the edges of my mind.
I wake with a jolt, my heart hammering in my chest, skin slick with a cold sweat. The room is still, quiet—too quiet. My pulse races as my eyes snap open, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement, any hint of danger. It’s the familiar panic, the one that hits me in the tranquil moments when my guard slips. My muscles tense, ready to spring into action, but there’s nothing. Nothing but the soft rise and fall of Malik’s breath beside me.
I blink, disoriented, taking in the room. The shadows in the corners are harmless. The window is shut tight. The door is locked. No sign of a threat. Just the silence of the night stretching out before me like a promise I can’t seem to escape. I sigh, trying to calm the rush of adrenaline that’s still pulsing through my veins.
I slip out of the bed, careful not to disturb Malik, and move toward the door. The floor creaks beneath my weight. I pause in the hallway, my senses on high alert, listening for anything out of place. The house is as still as I left it. No intruder, no movement. Just the eerie calm of my own mind tricking me into thinking I’m being watched.
I check the rest of the house out, slowly, methodically, as if any sudden movement might bring the world crashing down on me. Each room, each corner, is empty. No one’s here but me. No one but Malik, who is still sleeping soundly in my bed, unaware of the storm inside me.
I return to the bedroom, sinking back into the bed, the weight of the silence finally settling over me. My eyes go back to him, to Malik, in his own peaceful oblivion. His chest rises and falls with each breath, steady, simple, unburdened. It’s almost too much to bear—the serenity of it. It cuts through the tension in my chest like a blade. I hate how vulnerable he looks. How safe.
I should leave. I should pull away, keep my distance. But instead, I stay frozen, caught in a war I didn’t prepare for. My fingers twitch, yearning to reach for him. To close the distance between us, even if it means revealing more than I’m willing to show. But I don’t. I can’t. If I let him get too close, I might lose control. I might let him in. And if I do that—if I let him into the place where my darkness lies—he’ll see the truth of me. And I’ll lose him.
The weight of my thoughts presses down on me, heavier than it’s ever felt before. I don’t do love. I don’t do softness. But with him, it’s different. I feel something I don’t know how to handle. A warmth in my chest, a tenderness I can’t shake. I’ve spent my entire life hiding from this. From feeling anything that isn’t cold, calculated. But with Malik, with the way he holds me without even knowing what I am—it’s dangerous. It’s an addiction I never planned on.
His breathing steadies, calm and easy, while my pulse thrums a chaotic rhythm. I want to touch him. I want to trace the line of his jaw, run my fingers through his hair, feel the warmth of his skin against mine. But I know better. I know what happens when I let myself give in to that need. The world shifts, the walls I’ve built start to crumble. And once they fall, once he sees the truth of who I am, there’s no going back.
The panic rises again in my chest as I swallow hard. I can't let him see the monster inside me. I can’t lose everything I’ve built.
But he makes me feel things. Soft things. And it’s fucking terrifying. I want to hold him, protect him, but I know that’s just another lie I tell myself to keep me from drowning in the reality of who I really am.
His eyes flutter, his body shifting slightly in the bed. I freeze, holding my breath, but he doesn’t wake. I slowly exhale, the tension easing from my chest.
I could kiss him. I could pull him closer, let myself forget. But I won’t. I can't. If he knows what I’ve done, what I’m capable of, he’ll recoil. He’ll run. And I'll lose everything—him, the peace I’ve found with him, and the thin thread of control I’m barely holding on to.
I turn my head away, closing my eyes, but the image of him—so serene, so trusting—haunts me. I don’t deserve him. He doesn’t deserve me. I know that. I’m a killer. That’s who I am. And he’s just… too pure for someone like me.
But still, I stay, lying beside him in the dark, trapped in the chaos of my own heart.