Malachai (All Saints #5)

Chapter 1

Indigo

The lights in the Velvet Room didn't just hit me—they worshipped me.

Gold beams sliced across my sweat-slick skin like they were trying to carve their names into my flesh.

The heat of them kissed every curve, every dip, every place where flesh met bone.

I could feel them dragging down my spine, pooling in the hollow of my throat, settling between my breasts like they'd found a home there.

When I stepped onto that stage, the heartbeat of the room shifted to match mine.

Every single soul in there started breathing on my count.

I had it like that.

I'd built a reputation in this city brick by brick, dollar by dollar, dance by motherfucking dance.

I wasn't just a girl on a pole. I was a masterpiece in motion—a fantasy wrapped in mahogany skin and enough rhinestones to blind a hater.

My body was architecture. My movement was poetry.

My existence on that stage was a middle finger to every man who'd ever tried to own me.

I stood there for a heartbeat. Letting them look. Letting them ache. Letting them see exactly what they'd never touch.

Then I went to work.

The chrome pole was cold against my palms. I liked the shock of it—the way it woke up every nerve in my fingers, my arms, my shoulders.

I climbed like it was a ladder to heaven, hand over hand, my muscles rippling with precision I'd bled for.

The air got thinner at the top. The lights got brighter.

The music got louder, bass thrumming through my bones like a second heartbeat.

I hooked a knee. Let the world spin.

The faces below blurred into nothing but greed—open mouths, hungry eyes, hands reaching for something they'd never catch. I spun until I couldn't tell where I ended and the room began.

Then I dropped.

Fifteen feet of freefall. Wind rushing past my ears. My heart in my throat. The stage rushing up to meet me like a lover I hadn't seen in years.

I stopped a literal inch from the floor.

My thighs screamed. My core locked. My body remembered every hour of training, every fall, every bruise that bloomed purple and blue across my skin like a roadmap of my own determination.

I landed in a split so sharp it could've cut the floor.

My eyes locked on the front row. I watched their jaws hit the table one by one, like dominoes made of desperation.

They were hypnotized. Entranced. Reduced.

Turned the fuck on.

I smiled.

I wasn't Indigo anymore.

I wasn't "Little Bird."

The girl Malachai once owned had died three years ago in a parking lot, bleeding out on gravel while her husband's enemies closed in. I buried her myself. No funeral. No flowers. Just the slow, deliberate work of becoming someone else.

In this zip code, I was the Midnight Ballerina.

I sucked in a deep breath of smoke-heavy air and laughed out loud as the storm hit.

Hundreds and fifties fluttered through the air like blue-and-green confetti, sticking to my damp skin, catching in my hair, settling between my breasts like offerings at an altar I'd built for myself.

I moved through the paper rain, arched my back until my hair brushed the stage, and felt the power of being exactly who I knew I was.

Not who he wanted me to be.

Not who my daddy raised me to be.

Not who the world said I should be after everything I'd lost.

Me.

After some ass shaking and a flash of pussy—because I was human, not a saint, and because watching them squirm never got old—I didn't rush to collect the spoils.

I let the money lie where it fell.

A carpet of dead presidents for me to walk over. Somebody would collect it for me. It would hit my account as an ACH by the next morning. That was the privilege of being the crown jewel. You didn't pick up your own scraps. You had people for that.

I began my exit.

I didn't do private dances. I damn sure didn't do "extras."

I was a spectator sport.

"Midnight!"

The name echoed through the dark, a low-frequency chant that started in the VIP booths and bled out to the bar, jumping from mouth to mouth like a virus I was proud to carry.

I stepped off the stage, my heels clicking like a warning against the sticky floor.

Each step was a declaration. Each click was a promise.

I walked straight through the crowd.

They parted like a sea of desperate men.

Most of them were regulars. They knew the rules. They didn't touch me—because that was how you lost a hand. Dutch didn't have to enforce it. The other men did it for him. Nobody wanted to be the reason Midnight stopped coming.

A hand extended toward me, clutching a stack of bills thick enough to choke a horse. I didn't even glance at it. I kept walking, my gaze fixed on the heavy velvet curtains of the dressing room—my sanctuary, my escape, my five minutes of quiet before I had to be her again.

"Midnight, one more! Just one more song!"

I ignored it.

"Yo, Midnight! Name the price for a private session! I got ten racks right here!"

I didn't even turn my head.

I didn't make it to the dressing room before I heard my name.

"Midnight. My office. Now."

Dutch's voice. Barked like a command. Like I was one of his other girls, the ones who jumped when he snapped his fingers.

I sucked my teeth and made a U-turn.

His office smelled like knock-off Cool Water and stale pussy.

I lingered in the doorway. Leaned against the frame. Crossed my arms and checked my nails like I had somewhere better to be—because I did. Anywhere was better than his grimy little kingdom of desperation and debt.

He was sweating. Gold chains clicked against his chest as he paced, catching the shitty fluorescent light. His brown skin looked dull—waxy, almost—like he hadn't slept in days. His belly poked out more than usual, straining against his too-tight button-up.

"The answer is the same as it was yesterday, Dutch," I said before he could open his mouth.

He opened it anyway. "I need you to do a favor, Red—"

"No."

"—A heavy hitter in VIP 4—"

"Still no."

"—He's offering twenty thousand—"

"I don't care if he's offering a million."

"—Just to see you dance behind closed doors. Just one dance. No touching."

I pushed off the doorframe and took one step into the room. Just one. Enough to let him know I wasn't scared of him. Enough to let him know I never would be.

"I don't do privates. I don't fuck for money. My stage is my sanctuary." I cocked my head, let my eyes go flat. "If he wants to see me, he can buy a front-row seat like everybody else."

"He's a dangerous man to say no to." Dutch's voice dropped into something that was almost a plea. Almost a threat.

I smiled. It wasn't warm.

"Then it's a good thing I'm a dangerous woman."

I turned my back on him.

"Don't regret this," he warned.

I didn't answer. Just walked.

The hallway was dim. The air was thick—hairspray, sweat, desperate ambition.

The energy back here was pure battery acid. You could taste it on your tongue. You could feel it crawling under your skin.

"Look at her."

Mercedes's voice sliced through the locker room before I even made it through the door.

"Thinking she's the Queen of fucking Africa because she won't go to the back.

" She was sprawled on the cracked vinyl couch, one leg crossed over the other, acrylic nails tapping against her phone screen like she was bored.

But she wasn't bored. She was venomous. "You ain't nothing but a glorified gymnast, Midnight.

Eventually the money dries up for girls who won't play the game. "

The other three girls in the room laughed. It was hollow. Rehearsed. The kind of laugh you do when you're scared of the woman talking and hoping she won't turn on you next.

I walked straight up to Mercedes. Invaded her space until she had to lean back against the vanity, until her perfume—something cheap and cloying—filled my nose. Until she could see every freckle on my face, every rhinestone still clinging to my skin, every ounce of I don't give a fuck in my eyes.

"The difference between us, Mercedes, is that I'm the game." My voice was quiet. Soft. The kind of soft that cuts deeper than screaming. "You're just a player getting played."

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

"Keep my name out of your mouth before I decide to take your sets too."

She went quiet.

I didn't bother showering.

The stalls were filthy. The drains were clogged.

I pulled on my silk joggers and my oversized hoodie. I tucked my long blonde hair away. Hiding Midnight.

The adrenaline from my set was fading. My hands were starting to shake. From the crash. From the space between being worshipped and being alone.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the side exit.

The parking lot was a graveyard of luxury cars and broken dreams.

I hit the remote on my key fob. The lights of my Maybach chirped in the distance—

I didn't hear anyone coming.

I felt them.

The shift in the air. The displacement of space. The way the night seemed to hold its breath.

A shadow moved faster than I could react.

A massive gloved hand slammed over my mouth. The scent of ammonia and stale tobacco flooded my senses, burning my nose, coating my tongue. I tried to drive my heel into his foot—but a heavy blow caught me at the base of my skull.

The world turned into a kaleidoscope of neon and gray.

My knees buckled. Gravel bit into my skin as I went down, sharp and unforgiving. The last thing I felt was the cold pavement against my cheek—rough, wet, smelling like oil and rain.

The last thing I heard was my own heartbeat, thundering in my ears, begging me to move, to fight, to live.

Then everything went black.