Page 60 of Toxic B!tch
His gaze darkens. “I’m not making a promise.” He leans in slightly, just enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the gravity of what’s left unsaid. “I’m making a choice.”
A choice.
God help us both.
Malik’s gaze stays on me, his dark eyes heavy with a mix of understanding and something else—something I can’t quite place, but it feels like a crack in the walls I’ve spent so long building.
My fingers tighten around the glass of my milkshake, the cold smoothness grounding me. But there’s an unease crawling under my skin, a gnawing feeling I can’t ignore. “I’m scared, Malik,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “I’m scared of being alone. Of being rejected. Of… you walking away.”
The words sting as they leave my mouth, but they feel like a release. Finally, I expose a tiny sliver of truth.
His brow furrows, his jaw tight, as if my vulnerability is pulling him into a space he doesn’t want to go. His hand hovers near his milkshake, but he doesn’t touch it. “What do you mean, rejected?”
“I mean… this.” I gesture between us, my eyes flicking to our milkshakes, the tiny world we’ve built in this booth. “I don’t belong anywhere, Malik. I never have. I’ve spent my life trying to make people see me, to make them care. But I’m not like other people. I kill. I do things I can’t take back. And I do it because it gives me control. Because without it, I’m nothing.”
His voice is low, steady. “You think killing gives you control?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to control. Everything else—my life, my past, it’s all been out of my hands. But that... that’s mine.”
Malik’s fingers flex on top of the table, his internal battle evident in the way his gaze sharpens, almost accusing. “You don’t have to do this, Indigo. You don’t have to keep running from it.”
“I’m not running. I’m surviving,” I say, my voice a little stronger now, but the vulnerability still lingers.
Malik leans back slightly, his brow furrowing deeper, like he’s trying to piece together something he’s not ready to understand. His voice cracks with the weight of the question. “And now? What are you doing now?”
I meet his gaze, my stomach twisting. “I don’t know. I thought I had control, but… I don’t think I do anymore.”
There’s a long silence, thick with tension. His eyes burn into mine, searching for answers in a place where even I don’t have them. And then he says something I never expect. “I’m scared too, Indigo.”
The words feel like a punch, and I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
“I’m scared of what I’m becoming. Scared of how this”—he gestures between us—“is pulling me in. The things I’m feeling for you, the way you make me think, make me feel... It’s not right. I can’t trust it.”
I swallow hard, my chest tightening with the weight of his words. And yet, despite the heaviness of it all, there’s something tender there, something raw that’s unspoken. Something that’s beginning to bridge the gap between us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
INDIGO
We’re still at the diner when the text comes through. Our milkshakes are long gone, the empty glasses sweating against the table, but we’ve been sitting here, lingering in the artificial glow of neon lights, talking about nothing and everything. Trying to save something that might already be lost. Across from me, Malik shifts in the booth, his warmth radiating toward me, but not quite touching. His presence is hesitant, like I might shatter under his fingers. Or worse, like I might bite.
The text comes through just after midnight. A single message, plain and nondescript, yet charged with something electric beneath the surface.
Cleanup: Tomorrow. 10 PM. Warehouse on 5th.
I stare at the words, the weight of them settling deep in my chest. Then another message follows, just as brief, just as certain.
Cleanup: Don’t be late. He won’t wait.
The cleaner never wastes words. Every letter is deliberate, every sentence a door opening into another layer of control, another level of the game. And I play the game well—at least, I did before Malik started asking too many questions.
“Who is it?” His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s something else woven into it. Caution. Maybe even fear.
I look up at him. The fluorescents above us hum softly, their dim light doing nothing to cut through the tension between us. I could tell him it’s nothing, that I’m done with all of this, that I’m just a girl in a diner with her boyfriend, safe and clean. But lies between us don’t land the way they used to. Heknowsnow. Knows what I am, what I do, what I crave.
“It’s the cleaner,” I say instead.
Malik frowns. “Cleaner? What do you mean?”
