Chapter 13
Indigo
I heard the front door open and close. My stomach twisted.
He was back. He hadn’t been back in two days and had left me locked in the one-bedroom box he’d trapped me in. He had let me out of the bedroom, but there were bars and an alarm keeping me inside. All I had were a living room, a kitchen, and a guest bathroom.
I shut off the shower, water still streaming down my skin, and stepped out without bothering with a towel. Bare feet slapped against the tile as I walked into the bedroom, dripping wet.
Malachai stopped in the doorway, watching me with those flat, unreadable eyes.
“Are the Russians dead?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. Water dripped onto the hardwood floor.
He didn’t answer right away. He just studied me, as if he were deciding how much truth I could handle tonight.
“Not yet,” he said finally, his voice low and even. “But they will be. I’m handling it.”
My muscles coiled.
“Bullshit,” I spat, stepping closer with my fists clenched at my sides. “I don’t believe anything you say. You’re stalling on the Russians just to keep me trapped in this place like the fucking little bird you want me to be. You’re such a fucking weirdo, Malachai.”
I knew he was lying. He used to kill a lot more people in a lot less time.
He didn’t react. Like always. He pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer. His thumb hooked casually into the waistband of his jeans, adjusting himself without a hint of shame. This is what we’d become; we had spent the last two weeks fighting or fucking since the Bruce incident.
He tilted his head, his eyes tracking a bead of water as it rolled down my collarbone. He leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from mine—close enough that I could feel the ghost of his breath.
“Maybe I am,” he whispered. “And maybe I’ve already buried them and I’m lying.” He paused. “The beautiful thing is, Indigo… you’ll never truly know if I am. You’ll just have to stay right here and wait for me to tell you.”
My chest heaved. “I hate you.”
He was right, though; something was wrong with me. Maybe this was just what I was used to between us.
“You don’t. I think you enjoy this, Indigo,” his voice was low and even, almost soothing. “You might even need this. The push. The edge. You were like this before, but you’re worse now. Look at your nipples.”
“No,” I shook my head, “I really hate you.”
I saw something flash in his eyes. This might have been the first time I actually hurt him.
Before I could react, his hand snapped out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. He yanked me forward and slammed my wet back against the wall, the impact jarring through my bones as he pinned me with his body.
His other hand rose to my throat—controlling my air.
“You want it angry tonight,” he said quietly, almost clinically. “I can give you that.”
He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. I raked my nails down his back, hard enough to tear skin. He didn’t react beyond a slow exhale.
“Fuck you,” I hissed.
He freed himself from his jeans, not even bothering to remove them before he slammed into my wetness in one motion. He felt thick and rigid. I cried out, my head slamming back against the wall. “Fuck—”
He started fucking me in steady, punishing strokes, each one slamming me harder into the wall. The rhythm was relentless, as if he were testing how much I could take. His grip on my throat tightened just enough to make spots dance in my vision.
“This is what you need,” he said, his voice calm even as his hips snapped forward. “To be filled. Used. Reminded who you belong to.”
I snarled and dug my nails deeper into his shoulders, drawing blood. “Shut up.”
He just watched my face with cold eyes, angling his hips to hit that deep, aching spot inside me with every thrust. His free hand slid between us, his thumb pressing firm, precise circles on my clit.
My walls clenched around his thick shaft, soaking him, the wet slap of skin echoing obscenely with every vicious thrust. My hips started grinding back against him despite myself.
“Say it,” he commanded softly, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me you need me inside you. Tell me you love being fucked like this.”
“I hate you,” I gasped, the words cracking as the pressure built.
He didn’t argue. He simply fucked me harder, deeper, his length pounding into me with wet, rhythmic sounds. The coil in my belly snapped without warning. I came violently, screaming, my walls pulsing and squeezing him as my thighs shook.
He kept going, riding out every spasm, his rhythm never breaking. Only when my body went limp did he bury himself to the hilt with a low, controlled groan. He throbbed as he released, flooding me with thick, hot spurts. There was so much I felt it leaking out around his shaft.
For a moment, there was only our heavy breathing.
Then the rage flooded back. I shoved at his chest, my legs trembling as I slid down the wall.
“Get the fuck off me,” I snarled, reaching for my clothes, the evidence of him still leaking from me.
He stepped back smoothly, tucking himself away and watching me with faint curiosity, like he was waiting for something. I stormed toward the bathroom, disappointed in myself because he hadn’t been too far from the truth.