Chapter 12
Malachai
The sun was too bright for a morning that felt this heavy.
I stayed awake long after Indigo’s breathing finally evened out, tracing the red marks I’d left on her hips with my eyes.
They matched the ones she’d left on my face — my split lip still throbbed, my jaw ached, but I welcomed the pain.
It was proof. A receipt that she’d been here, that she’d come undone beneath me, even while screaming that she hated me.
She had lost weight while she was gone. The soft plushness I used to grip, the full curves that used to fill my hands, had thinned.
I hated her hair even more — the way she’d cut and dyed it, as if she could reinvent herself away from me.
But she was still beautiful to me. Painfully so. I would keep those thoughts to myself.
She was shattered from what happened three years ago. I saw it clearly last night. Good. Broken things are easier to rebuild exactly how you want them.
I’d learned from my mistakes. I gave her too much freedom before. That wildness of hers — that fire — had led her straight out the door and into three years of hell. I told her what would happen if she ever ran. Now I was making it happen.
Kael’s voice echoed in my head… Give her a choice.
Useless advice. He didn’t understand Indigo. Women like her don’t choose safety — they choose the strongest cage that feels like home. So I wouldn’t lock the doors. I’d simply make the world outside so terrifying that she’d bolt them herself.
I slipped out of bed like a ghost and moved to the kitchen. I made her breakfast exactly how she used to like it… overly sweet coffee, toast with that disgusting diet jam she pretended was healthy, bacon, and fried potatoes. A contradictory mess. Just like her.
When I returned to the bedroom, she was sitting up, sheets clutched tight to her chest like armor. Her eyes were wary, guarded. She looked at the tray, then at my bruised lip. I saw the flicker of memory in her gaze — the slaps, the screaming, the way she’d begged me to fuck her harder.
I kept my face calm.
“Eat.”
She stared at the food for a long moment before picking up a piece of toast.
“When are you going to kill the Russians, Malachai?”
The question came out flat, almost bored. She was trying to sound cold, but I heard the need underneath it.
“It’s not that simple,” I lied smoothly, leaning back against the headboard. “The Volkovs aren’t some corner boys. Taking them out requires coordination. Timing. If I move sloppy, I put a target on both of us.”
I watched her carefully. She chewed slowly, eyes narrowed, but she didn’t push. Good.
I left the room briefly and returned with a new laptop, a television, and a thick envelope. I set the electronics on the bed and handed her the papers.
“What’s this?”
“Letters from the kids at your studio,” I said. “It’s still running. I hired a teacher to keep it going while you were… away.”
She froze, fingers hovering over the envelope. I watched something soft flicker across her face — the first real crack in her armor since she’d come back.
“When the Russians are handled and it’s safe,” I continued, “you can go back. You can dance again.”
I was feeding her pieces of her old life, one careful bite at a time. Reminding her that everything she loved — her studio, her freedom, her safety — depended on me.
She actually smiled.
Good girl.
I buried the satisfaction deep. She thought she was still fighting me. She didn’t realize the trap was already closing — soft, warm, and wrapped in everything she missed. She’d come to me for protection. She’d let me fuck her grief away. Soon she’d convince herself staying was her own idea.