Page 42 of Toxic B!tch
The realization slides through me like a slow drag of a blade against silk. Not jarring, not unexpected, just… inevitable.
Ramon had begged, of course. They always do in the end. But I had been so careful.His final moments were not chaos or brutality, but precision. Artistry. He had taken his last breathinside these very walls, and now—by some cruel trick of fate—Malik had unknowingly brought me back to the scene of one of my greatest compositions.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I kill the engine and let the silence settle around me. The house looms, stripped to its bones by time and reconstruction, but it cannot be cleansed. Not entirely. Blood has a way of soaking into more than just the floors. It lingers in the air, in the walls, in the echoes of what they witnessed.
I inhale slowly, letting the memory wash over me for a brief moment. My fingers flex around the handlebars, pushing it away before it can take root. That was then. This is now.
And now, I am simply a woman bringing food to her lover.
The thought is almost amusing.
I swing my leg over the bike, adjusting my gloves before peeling off my helmet. The cold nips at my skin, but I welcome it, letting it ground me as I move toward the house. The front door is ajar, the sound of low music and the rhythmicthudof a hammer spilling into the quiet morning.
Malik is inside.
The man who sleeps with his back pressed against mine. Who reaches for me in the dark without knowing exactly what he’s touching.
He doesn’t know what I am.
But that’s okay.
Because he doesn’t need to.
I step onto the porch, the faint smell of fresh wood and sawdust hanging in the air. The door creaks open as I push it, and I step inside. Malik’s already moving in the main room, the steady rhythm of his hammer meeting wood. He doesn’t notice me at first, but I feel his presence like a pull in my chest.
He looks up, catching my gaze, and the slow grin that spreads across his face is a sight I can’t help but return. It’s that grin—easy, knowing, like he knows exactly what this feels like too. And it makes my chest tighten in ways I refuse to name.
"You spoil me," he rumbles, his voice low and warm as he steps closer, taking the bag from my hands.
I smirk, glancing at the truck outside. "If I didn't, you'd live off vending machine junk."
He unwraps the gyro, taking a bite with an appreciative groan. "Damn, you really know the way to a man’s heart."
I arch a brow. "Through his stomach?"
His gaze flickers to mine, something unreadable in the depths of his dark eyes. "Among other places."
A dangerous game, this. Malik doesn't know what lurks beneath my skin, what my hands have done, what they will do. He looks at me like he wants to know, like he wants to peel back the layers until he reaches something he can keep.
He doesn't realize that beneath the surface, there is nothing but red.
Still, I let myself lean into him, just for a moment, just long enough to pretend that I could ever belong to something soft, something untouched by the darkness I create.
"You're staring, Indigo," he murmurs, his tone laced with amusement.
I blink, shaking off the thoughts that creep too close. "Just making sure you don't choke."
He chuckles, taking another bite. "You’d save me if I did, right?"
I tilt my head, considering. "Or I'd just finish your lunch."
He laughs, full and unguarded, and for a brief, fleeting second, I wonder what it would be like if I were someone else. Someone who could exist in the world Malik belongs to.
But I am not. And I never will be.
Elle’s face flickers in my mind, her routine ingrained in my memory, her fate already set in motion.
