Page 30 of Toxic B!tch
“Yeah,” she says, voice firm. “I want to try.”
I look at her, a little thrown off by the certainty in her voice. “Baby, I don’t know if you have a mean bone in your body. Not trying to be an ass, but do you really think you could... you know... kill something?”
She tilts her head, staring at me for a long moment, lips parting to lick them slowly, almost methodically. “Yup. I could.”
I frown, feeling a weird chill crawl down my spine. I don’t know why, but the way she says it feels... off. “I don’t know...” I start, my words hesitant.
Indigo doesn’t miss a beat. “Please,” she says, voice soft but insistent, her gaze not leaving mine for a second.
Something flickers in her eyes—an eagerness, maybe even a hunger—but I’m too caught up in her request to process it. I let out a breath, running a hand through my hair. “Fine,” I mutter, still unsure. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She flashes me a grin that’s too wide, too sharp, like a predator finally getting the green light. “You won’t regret this,” she says, practically skipping ahead down the path.
I follow her, shaking my head, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. With Indigo, nothing ever feels predictable—and maybe that’s exactly why I can’t let her go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
INDIGO
Today’s the day. Malik is taking me hunting and I couldn’t be any more excited. The first blush of dawn paints the sky in colors of rose and gold, casting a romantic light over the dense woods. Malik and I climb into the sanctuary of the tree stand, moving with purpose, silent and deliberate, as we settle into our perch above the wood’s floor. The cool morning breeze carries the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the rustle of branches and unseen creatures.
I glance over at Malik. There’s something about the quiet moments that sharpens everything—every movement, every sound, every small detail. He’s a giant of a man—plus size in a way that makes him stand out, but there’s something about his stature that drives me wild. The way he moves with surprising grace, the way his broad shoulders flex as he readies his rifle—it’s all a careful dance between strength and restraint. He’s a beast, but he wears it so damn well.
I can’t help but watch him as he checks the scope, his hands steady, sure. He’s calm, focused, and a little too gorgeous formy own sanity. I can feel the rush building in me, the kind that comes with knowing what's coming next.
I watch his hands as he adjusts the rifle. The way he moves, precise and unhurried, reminds me of my own work. Not with a rifle, but with a blade. His patience, his unwavering focus—it’s almost beautiful. My hands twitch at the thought, an old hunger stirring beneath my skin. I know what it feels like to hold a life in my hands. The weight of it. The moment just before.
If Malik knew the things I’ve done, would he still look at me like I’m something soft?
I lean back against the wooden frame of the stand, my eyes never leaving him. I don’t know why I love him like this, but I do. Maybe it’s because in an event like this, right here in this moment, he’s more like me. The chase, the precision, the kill—it’s all too damn seductive.
"Ready?" he asks, voice low, though I can feel the anticipation thrumming through him.
"Always," I reply, the thrill of the moment sharp and dangerous.
A coyote emerges from the brush, its coat a muted blend with the landscape. Malik’s finger hovers over the trigger. Time slows. His body is a statue of tension, eyes locked on the prey.
I’m not sure if it’s the hunt, the man, or the way they both come together in this perfect harmony, but my heart is pounding in my chest. My pulse quickens as the world around us goes still.
Then, the rifle cracks through the silence, a sharp slice through the morning calm. The coyote falls. Malik remains frozen for a moment, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body below. I feel the sharpness of the moment, the intensity of his focus, as if he’s not just hunting but staking a claim.
Malik exhales, slow and steady, and I see it—his satisfaction. It’s not malice, not cruelty, but respect. Respect for the kill, respect for the hunt. His brow softens, and a small smile tugs atthe corners of his lips. This is him. The man beneath the surface—part gentle, part beast—and damn if it doesn’t make my blood burn hotter.
I watch as Malik starts to descend from the stand, his large frame moving with surprising fluidity. I follow, stepping lightly down the ladder, my steps barely making a sound. He’s heavy-footed, but there’s a grace to him that matches the intensity of his presence. I can feel the weight of the air between us. The hunt is over, but the tension lingers.
We approach the coyote, its tawny fur matted with dew, and I feel a wave of satisfaction, but it’s not the kind that anyone else would understand. There’s beauty in the death of this creature, in the rawness of the act. To others, it might be grotesque, but to me, it’s pure. It’s nature. It’s the truth.
“Right then,” Malik says, voice carrying that reverence I’ve come to expect from him. He unslings his pack, pulling out his tools, ready to clean the kill. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to flinch or hesitate, but I don’t do either.
I watch his hands again, the way he grips the knife, the ease with which he uses it. A clean cut, just beneath the skin, precise and practiced. I wonder if he knows how similar we are.
The thought makes my fingers twitch with the need to touch. To feel the weight of the knife, to take part in this, to let him seethisside of me.I want to show him that I understand this. That I understand him.
“I want to help.”
His eyes snap up to meet mine, surprise flickering across his face. I don’t flinch. I don’t recoil. I just stare back, calm and collected. This is what I am. This is what I’ve always been. Nothing more, nothing less. The rawness doesn’t scare me. It excites me.
Malik doesn’t say anything at first. He just hands me a pair of gloves, his gaze steady, almost approving. He didn’t expect thisfrom me—he’s always seen the flirty, silly side of me, but not the part that appreciates the intimate brutality of death.
