Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
INDIGO
Tracking down Elle was a bust a few nights ago. She was home, surrounded by friends, and I’m no idiot. Patience is a virtue, or so they say, but I’ve never been one for virtue.
Malik came over, true to his word, the next night, and I took my frustrations out on him. On his body. On his dick. I think I sucked the poor man dry. By the time I was done, he was begging me to ease up, to let him take a breather, voice wrecked, body trembling beneath me. He swore he needed a minute to recover, but I could feel the heat of him, the way his body betrayed him, wanting more even as he pleaded for mercy.
But still, it wasn’t enough. The tension in my chest, the clawing, gnawing need under my skin—it’s only gotten worse. Orgasms don’t cut it anymore. No matter how deep I sink my teeth into Malik, no matter how many times I make him come undone, it doesn’t satiate the hunger inside me.
I need blood.
I need the look in someone's eye as they draw their last breath.
And so, I concoct a plan.
It’s almost too easy. People are so fucking predictable.
I tell Emil that the bitch from the other night will be back tonight. “She left her card here, and I called her to let her know we have it,” I say, watching as he smirks. “Oh, since she left before I could close her out, I doubled her tab.”
Sure enough, just like I predicted, she calls up here bitching, saying we scammed her after throwing her out. I keep my voice even, pleasant. “I completely understand,” I tell her. “Come in at ten tonight, and we’ll reverse the charge. And the bartender who ‘assaulted’ you will apologize.”
She doesn’t even recognize my voice. The fucking idiot.
She shows up at ten sharp, strutting in like she owns the place.
Perfect.
From the moment she steps through the door, I’m watching her. She’s confident, but not in the way that means anything. Not in a way that’s dangerous. She’s the type who thinks she can do whatever she wants because no one has ever made her face consequences. The type who thinks she can run her mouth, toss out accusations, and walk away without a scratch.
She has no idea what kind of storm she’s walked into.
She marches up to the bar, eyes raking over me with disdain, and I just smile.
"How can I help you?" I ask smoothly.
She plants a hand on her hip. "I left my card here the other night and you scam artists charged me way more than I drank. I need a reversal."
"Of course," I say, taking her card. I go through the motions, processing the refund without a single hitch. No need to tip her off.
I hand her the card back. With a sigh, she takes it, then crosses her arms
She’s waiting.
"Anything else?" I ask, tilting my head, feigning innocence.
Her lips curve into something smug. "I was told you would be giving me an apology. I’m waiting."
God, she’s insufferable.
I school my expression into something sweet, something placating. "Oh, of course. Let me get you a drink to apologize properly."
The dumb bitch actually smirks. As if she’s won something.
I whip up a classic Toxic Bitch cocktail—sweet, tart, with just the right amount of kick. She takes it without hesitation, drinking as I lay the apology on thick, my voice soft, just a touch remorseful.
The conversation drags on, her attitude shifting between smug satisfaction and thinly veiled contempt as I play my part, nodding along, feeding her exactly what she wants to hear. An hour ticks by, the bar buzzing around us, the tension stretching just enough.
By the time I hand over the receipt showing the charge reversal, she’s on her second drink, this one disappearing even faster than the first. The reaction comes not long after—her balance wavering as she pushes off the barstool, blinking rapidly.
"I... I have to go," she mumbles, voice unsteady.
Perfect timing. My shift ends at eleven, and she showed up right on schedule. Like a mouse walking straight into my trap. I grab my bag I brought to work tonight, the weight of it comforting in my hand.
She pushes through the door, moving in slow, uneven steps. I hang back just enough to let her believe she still has control.
She reaches her car, fumbling with her keys, her body sluggish, her limbs betraying her. She manages to get the door open, and as she tries to climb inside, I make my move.
I shove her over, climbing in right behind her and tossing my bag onto the floorboard of the passenger side.
I Ubered to work today instead of riding my bike—smart move, considering anyone looking for me or Elle wouldn’t spot it parked outside.
She lets out a weak sound of protest, but it’s useless. She’s already too far gone, and I’m stronger. It takes no effort at all to push and shove her limp form into the passenger seat, snapping the seatbelt across her just to be safe.
I fire up the engine, gripping the wheel as I pull out of the lot.
I know just where to take her.
Where to end her miserable fucking life.
Marie’s.
The woods Malik took me hunting in.
She starts to come around as I drive, her head rolling against the seat, a weak groan slipping from her lips.
"Where..." she mumbles, voice thick, slurred. "Where are we going?"
I keep my eyes on the road, a smirk playing at the edges of my lips. "Taking you somewhere safe, sweetheart."
She blinks slowly, trying to focus on me. “You—” She swallows thickly. “You drugged me.”
I let out a soft laugh, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. "Now, why would I do that?"
Her breathing hitches. Panic starts to seep in, the fog of whatever I slipped in her drink beginning to clear just enough for her to understand.
But it’s too late for her now.
The roads get darker, emptier, as I drive further away from town. Away from prying eyes. The night air is cool, crisp, seeping in through the cracked window.
I cut across the field to avoid the headlights shining into Marie’s house. Don’t need to tip her off that I’m out here, that I’ve got business to take care of.
The ride is bumpy, uneven, tires kicking up dirt as I weave through the dark. The woods get thicker, swallowing the car in shadows. No street lights out here. No witnesses.
I cut the engine and step out, inhaling the crisp night air. It’s quiet out here, nothing but the hum of insects and the rustling of the wind through the trees.
"Out," I say, gripping her arm, yanking her to her feet.
Her knees buckle, and she stumbles, leaning heavily against me. I tsk, slipping my arm around her waist, guiding her forward.
"Come on, now," I croon. "Don't give up on me yet."
She whimpers, her breath coming fast, shallow. "Please," she slurs. "I won't... I won’t say anything."
I let out a soft chuckle. "Oh, I know you won’t."
I keep a firm grip on Elle as I reach into the car, my other hand snatching my bag off the passenger floorboard without letting her go.
The trees close in around us, the darkness thick, pressing in.
I take her to the same clearing Malik and I hunted in. The same spot where he taught me how to gut a coyote.
Fitting, really.
I drop her onto the damp earth, stepping back as she tries to push herself up on weak, trembling arms.
"Why?" she whispers, her voice barely a breath.
I crouch down, tilting my head as I study her.
"You were mean to my boyfriend," I murmur, dragging my knife from my boot. The blade catches the moonlight, glinting as I press it to her cheek, just light enough to tease.
Her entire body goes rigid.
"You're going to be my masterpiece."
The way Elle trembles, the way her breath shudders as I circle her—it sends a thrill through me. Her fear is intoxicating. The way her body fights to stay upright even though she knows, deep down, she’s already lost.
I hum to myself as I grab the rope from my bag, whistling a little tune Malik always hums when he’s cooking.
“You know,” I murmur, looping the rope around her wrists, yanking her arms up toward the low-hanging branch above us, “I don’t like it when people hurt what’s mine.”
Elle lets out a ragged sob, her legs twitching like she wants to run, like there’s even a possibility she’ll get away.
“I didn’t do anything,” she chokes out, trying to meet my gaze, trying to play innocent even as her breath hitches with panic. “I swear, I—I don’t even know what this is about.”
I yank the rope tight, making sure the knot is secure, before stepping back to admire my work. Her toes barely scrape the ground, her arms stretched tight above her head, body swaying slightly with the weight of her own uselessness.
“You hurt his feelings,” I say softly, dragging a gloved hand down the side of her trembling face. “That’s not something I let slide, sweetheart.”
“M-Malik?” she stammers. “This is about Malik? The chubby guy from the bar?”
A wicked grin spreads across my lips. “Of course it’s about him.”
She shakes her head frantically, the realization dawning in her wide, tear-filled eyes. “I—I’ll apologize,” she gasps. “I’ll tell him I didn’t mean it—whatever I said. I’ll—I’ll make it right.”
I let out a soft, amused hum. “Oh, will you?”
She nods desperately, tears spilling freely now. “Yes. Please. I’ll do anything.”
I grab her jaw, forcing her to look me in the eye. “Anything?”
“Yes,” she sobs. “I swear. I—I’ll even fuck him if that’s what you want.”
I freeze.
The words sink in, sharp and ugly, burrowing into my brain like maggots feasting on rotting flesh.
I pull back, blinking slowly.
“You want to fuck my boyfriend?” My voice is calm, smooth as glass.
She doesn’t seem to realize her mistake yet. “I just—I mean, if that would fix it?—”
“My. Fucking. Boyfriend?” My voice rises now, sharp and jagged, fury boiling over like lava threatening to consume everything in its path.
Elle opens her mouth to say something else—maybe to backpedal, maybe to beg—but I don’t give her the chance.
I slam the knife into her chest, just to the left of her breastbone, the point sinking deep enough to draw blood but missing her heart by a hair.
Her scream pierces the night, echoing through the trees.
I grin.
“Is this what you wanted?” I hiss, ripping the blade out with a sickening sound, only to drag it in a slow, deliberate slice down the curve of her breast. The silicone implant resists, but not for long.
Elle shrieks, thrashing, her body jerking against the restraints. Blood spills down her torso, dripping onto the forest floor.
I carve deeper, ignoring the mess, ignoring the way she sobs and pleads.
I get to what I want.
And I rip the fucking implant from her chest.
Elle wails, her head snapping back, her body convulsing in agony.
I toss the implant aside, watching as it lands in the dirt with a soft, wet thud.
She’s a slobbering, screaming, drooling mess.
And I just laugh.
Because she’s going to be beautiful when I’m done with her.