Chapter 20
Indigo
The silence in the house was razor-sharp.
The studio incident had only amplified Malachai’s possessiveness. He had been volatile, silent, and prone to long stretches of staring at the walls. I was walking on eggshells, feeling like I’d gone from wronged to wronging him too.
I wished he had never seen my New York performances. For a man like Malachai, sharing any part of me with the world was the ultimate sin. Those videos were a documented ledger of every second I had existed outside of his control.
If I wasn’t planning on leaving once the Russians were handled, I would have a lot of making up to do. My little performance that night hadn’t been nearly enough to settle the debt.
I needed him in a good mood.
I decided to cook. He used to like it when I did things for him. I had never cooked a full meal before, but I had the internet.
To soothe the beast, I chose a recipe from TikTok: pan-seared salmon and asparagus.
I drifted off into my own thoughts right after placing everything on the stove.
I didn’t notice the heat was too high.
The fire alarm screaming brought me back to reality.
“Fuck,” I whispered, reaching for the pan.
“Move.”
Malachai was right behind me before I could touch the hot pan. I jumped, my elbow clipping the counter.
He reached around me, his arm brushing mine as he turned off the burner. He snatched the pan from the stove and dumped the blackened, ruined salmon into the trash.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, backing away. “I just… I got distracted.”
He didn’t look at me. He walked to the fridge, pulled out a fresh fillet, and said, “I saw you prep it. Wouldn’t have been good anyway.”
My bottom lip poked out.
“Why are you suddenly cooking, Indigo?” he asked, not looking up from the new pan. The sizzle of fresh salmon filled the quiet space between us.
“I feel bad,” I admitted, my voice small. “About everything. I feel guilty.”
He stopped then, the spatula hovering over the fish. He turned his head slowly, those gray eyes scanning my face like he was searching for cracks.
“What does your guilt get me?” he asked. “Does it change the three years? Does it erase the men who saw you dancing? Does it make you more mine than you were an hour ago? Will it stop you from plotting to leave?”
I swallowed hard, glancing at the perfect golden-brown sear he’d achieved in seconds before looking back at him.
“I’m not plotting anything.”
He frowned.
“You are. But you still didn’t answer the question.”
“Kill the Russians, Malachai,” I said. “Do what you promised, and we can discuss what else my guilt gets you after.”
He studied me for a long beat, the blue flame of the stove reflecting in his pupils.
“Fair enough,” he said, turning back to the stove.