Chapter 11
Indigo
I watched the highway signs as we drove. Malac had me in a part of Florida I wasn’t familiar with, somewhere between Polk County and Orlando.
The drive was quiet, but it wasn't the kind of silence that offered any peace.
It was tense and exhausting. I kept thinking about where he was taking me.
Malachai sat like a statue behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
He didn't reach for the radio or offer a single word to bridge the gap between us.
One hand steered while the other rested near the gear shift.
He didn't have that "she's going to run" look on his face either.
He knew he had me stuck between him and a big fucking rock.
I couldn't leave until he handled the Russians.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked, having tried to resist the urge.
"You'll see," he replied. Short and final—exactly what I expected from him.
We eventually pulled up to a warehouse that seemed to sit on the very edge of St. Pete. There were no streetlights and no signs of life, just metal and concrete blending into the dark. Malachai killed the engine and sat there for a moment, still refusing to look at me.
"I always meant for you to have your retribution. This is..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "This is me giving it to you anyway, even though you ran."
Me running had made him bitter.
A dry laugh escaped me. "How?"
"Just follow me," he muttered before closing the car door and walking ahead, waiting for me to follow.
The air inside the warehouse was thick with the scent of oxidation and something more visceral—a decaying, pissy scent that made the hair on my arms stand up and my nose burn. He led me through a narrow, dimly lit corridor. I pressed the sleeve of my sweatshirt to my mouth and nose.
Suddenly, there was the sound of soft, rhythmic clinking—metal on metal. Chains.
My heart kicked, and I stopped in my tracks, but Malachai didn't even glance back. "Keep moving, Indigo."
I forced myself to follow him until the hallway opened into a wide, vaulted room.
That's where I saw him. My breath hitched.
A man was lashed to a metal chair like a captured animal.
His clothes were stained, his face was a mask of bruises and swelling, and his eyes darted around the room with a frantic, feral energy.
There were cans of dog food and bottles of dirty water scattered everywhere.
There was a table with knives, weapons, and tools.
My stomach did a slow turn.
"This is him," Malachai stated.
"Who?"
"The man who pushed you that day. Sasha was involved with him. She put him up to it."
"I didn't know. I never saw him or anyone," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. I thought Sasha had actually done it herself, since I never saw the actual person.
"Here." Malachai pulled out his phone and pressed play on a video.
The footage was grainy and low-quality, but what happened was unmistakable.
I watched myself from three years ago, walking down the stairs, carrying my bags, completely unaware.
Then, the shadow of a man appeared behind and to the side of me.
I watched the hands make contact with my back.
I watched the push. I watched myself fall.
I stopped breathing. The floor felt like it was tilting beneath my feet. "That's enough," I choked out.
My knees hit the gritty concrete floor before I even realized they'd buckled. The impact should have been jarring to my bones, but I didn't feel it. I just knelt there in the dirt, staring at the man in the chair.
"That was my baby," I said, my voice sounding hollow, stripped of everything but grief.
Malachai lifted me. I shook him off.
I stepped toward the chair, the blood in my veins feeling like acid. The man began to shake his head violently, tears carving tracks through the grime on his face. "I didn't know—I swear, I didn't know you were pregnant—"
"Don't," I snapped. The word must have felt like a physical blow. He froze instantly. "For Sasha? Was it worth it to end up like this?"
He shook his head.
"Some nights I wake up out of my sleep," I said, my voice trembling as much as my hands, "and I hear crying.
I hear it so clearly I think it's real. I think my babies right there next to me.
" My throat burned with the effort of speaking.
"I had names picked out. For a girl, I was going to name her Amara.
" My breath hitched, a sob threatening to break through. "For a boy… I liked Isaiah."
The man began to sob—a loud, ugly sound that filled the room. "I'm sorry… Sasha told me to—"
The mention of her name caused something inside me to fracture. A ringing filled my ears. "Don't say her name," I whispered.
"Let me go. Have mercy," he pleaded, his voice cracking, thick with a pathetic desperation. "I've been punished."
"How dare you ask me for mercy?" My voice snapped. "Where was my mercy when you were standing at the top of those stairs? Where was my baby's mercy when you put your hands on my back?"
I don't remember the moment I reached for the knife. There was no conscious decision, just a sudden, fluid movement. The first stab felt like nothing at all. The second felt like even less. By the third, my mind had gone completely blank.
Suddenly, strong hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me back with a force I couldn't fight.
"Indigo." Malachai's voice wasn't calm anymore; it was sharp, cutting through the red haze. "Enough."
"I wasn't finished!" I screamed, struggling against him.
"I know," he said, his arms locking around me like an iron vice. "But he is. He's done."
I snatched away from him and spun. My palm connected with his cheek. The crack echoed off the walls.
"I hate you!" My voice echoed back at me, sounding wild. Foreign.
I hit him again. His head snapped to the side. "I hate you for letting her near me!"
Another slap. His lip split. Blood dripped down his chin. "I hate you for not protecting us!"
My fists pounded his chest. He didn't move. Didn't block me.
"I hate you," I whispered. My knees gave out.
He caught me. Pulled me against his chest. I felt his heartbeat. Steady. Mine was everywhere.
"I know," he said.
I buried my face in his shirt. Sobbed until my throat burned. He held me. Didn't let go. But it only lasted a few minutes, the adrenaline vanishing as quickly as it had arrived, leaving me limp in his arms.
The ride back was even quieter than the way there, but the silence was different now—it was like my mind had fallen into a void.
By the time we reached the house, I was shaking so violently I could barely stand.
Malachai picked me up from the car and carried me into the house, going straight to the bathroom to turn on the shower.
He set me on my feet under the spray, peeling my clothes off for me. The water ran hot on my naked skin—scaldingly hot—but I didn't care.
As he began to rub the soap and rag across my arms, I looked down at my hands. They were clean. The water had seen to that minutes ago, but I could still feel the weight of the knife in my head. Feel his warm blood on my skin. The smell was still in my nose.
"Harder," I whispered, my voice cracking.
He paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes meeting mine through the curtain of steam, before he increased the pressure.
"Harder, Malachai," I commanded, my voice rising with a desperate edge. "Scrub it off. Get it off me."
He didn't argue. He braced one hand against the wall behind me to steady me as I swayed.
"I can still hear them," I said, the words spilling out into the space between us. I wasn't even sure if he could hear me over the roar of the shower. "I hear them crying, and no matter what I do, I can't make it stop."
The shower curtain drifted open just an inch. Malachai's hand reached through, holding a glass.
"Drink this," he commanded quietly.
I didn't ask what it was. I just took it and swallowed. Whatever it was worked quick. The world began to blur at the edges a couple of minutes later.
I woke up to a dark room. I was in bed. Naked. I could smell the soap on my skin. My flesh felt bruised. The sheets were tangled around my legs. Malachai's arm was across my stomach. His breathing was slow. Even.
I turned. Looked at his face in the dark. The shadows under his eyes. The sharp line of his jaw.
"Malachai."
He woke up immediately. Like he hadn't been sleeping at all. "What's wrong?"
"Make me feel better."
He blinked. "Indigo—"
"Make me forget." I tugged him toward me. "Please. Just for tonight. Make me forget."
I told myself I didn't want him. I wanted the silence.
He looked at me for a long time. Then his hand came up. Cupped my face.
"This won't fix what's hurting you."
"I know."
"Tomorrow you'll still be hurting."
"I know."
His mouth crashed into mine like he was trying to devour my pain. Hungry. Angry. Starved. I tasted whiskey and three years of pent-up obsession on his tongue as he shoved me down onto the mattress, his heavy body pinning me down.
“Malachai—”
“Shut up.” He bit my bottom lip hard enough to sting. “You wanted me to make you forget? Let me.”
He forced my thighs apart with his knee and dragged the thick head of his dick through my soaked pussy, teasing my clit until I was squirming. I was dripping for him — embarrassingly wet after three years of nothing.
“Look at this greedy pussy,” he growled, voice low and filthy. “Already creaming for me and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
I moaned, arching up, trying to get him inside me.
He slapped my thigh hard. “Beg.”
“Please, Malachai—”
He slammed into me in one brutal thrust, burying himself inside of me. I cried out at the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness. It hurt but I didn’t care.
“Fuck!” I gasped, nails digging into his back hard enough to draw blood.
“That’s right,” he snarled, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in even harder. “Take this dick. This pussy is still mine. Always been mine.”
He fucked me like he was punishing me for every day I’d been gone — deep strokes that made the headboard slam against the wall. Skin slapped against skin. The wet, obscene sound of him pounding into me filled the room.
He pinned my wrists above my head with one hand and used the other to wrap around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my pussy flutter around him.
“You ran from me,” he growled against my ear, hips snapping relentlessly. “Got other men looking at what’s mine. Dancing for them. Showing my pussy like a whore.”
He thrust harder, grinding against my clit with every stroke.
“But you came crawling back.”
I was losing my mind. My legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his ass as I tried to pull him deeper.
“Harder,” I begged, voice breaking. “Fuck me harder, Malachai. Make it hurt.”
He released my throat, grabbed my hips with both hands, and started pounding me like he hated me. The angle was brutal — his dick hitting that spot deep inside me over and over until I was sobbing with pleasure.
“You gonna cum on this dick?” he rasped, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my chest. “Cum for the man you stabbed. Come for the man you hate.”
I shattered.
My orgasm ripped through me so violently I screamed his name, pussy clenching and gushing around his thick dick. My whole body shook as wave after wave crashed over me.
Malachai cursed, thrusts turning erratic and punishing. “That’s it. Milk my fucking dick.”
With a groan he buried himself deeper, flooding me. He kept grinding deep, like he was trying to push every drop into me.
We stayed locked together, breathing ragged, bodies slick with sweat and cum.
He finally collapsed half on top of me, still buried inside, and pressed his lips to my ear.
“Go to sleep, Indigo,” he whispered. “I’ll keep the ghosts away tonight.”