He held my gaze.
“Can you stop fighting me long enough to see what I’m doing?”
Chapter 16
Indigo
I woke up before him.
I lay there for a long minute, staring at the ceiling. Maya’s words were still rattling around in my head. “You came back here for a reason, Indigo. Figure out what it is before you burn the whole house down trying to prove a point.”
She was right.
Three years ago, I wasn’t this hostile. Malachai went out of his way to make sure I had everything I needed—everything I wanted. Some part of me even understood the Sasha thing from his point of view. Maybe if I chilled out and acted more like I did before she came along, he’d be more inclined to let me have some kind of life outside these four walls.
I turned my head. His arm was still heavy across my stomach, warm and possessive even in sleep. His breathing was slow and even. For once, he actually looked like he was sleeping—jaw relaxed, those sharp lines in his face softened.
I studied him. The scar I’d given him on his chest rose and fell with every breath. I wondered how many more Russians were still breathing. I could be nice to him for that one kill. Sprinkle a little sugar on him. Get more information and hope it matched what Cooly found out.
I stretched, letting my body press into his.
His arm tightened around me instantly.
“You’re awake,” his voice was rough.
“So are you,” I replied.
I ran my fingers down his chest, tracing the scar I’d left. “What are we doing today?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. Suspicious. “What do you want to do?”
I smiled, soft and sweet. “Cook me breakfast. The good kind—with the potatoes in the omelet. And then we can talk about it.”
He studied my face for a long moment, searching for the trap. I kept my expression open, almost innocent.
“Okay,” he said finally.
We sat across from each other at the marble island. He slid a thick manila file toward me without a word.
I opened it.
Photos. Reports. Dates.
My stomach dropped.
“Dame and his father were a job,” Malachai said quietly, voice calm. “I wouldn’t kill your friend over jealousy. He wasn’t as innocent as you thought.”
He flipped a page. The image hit me like a slap—Dame in the back of a warehouse, surrounded by tied-up, frightened girls. Some of them couldn’t have been older than sixteen.
“He was helping his father traffic them,” Malachai continued. “Using his dancing career as cover to move girls across state lines.”
He pointed to one of the girls in the photo. My breath caught because I immediately recognized her.
“Peta-Gaye Williams. You know her.”
“Yeah. We’d taken a few summer dance classes together as kids when she visited.”
Kimona was this female Jamaican crime boss. Peta was her only daughter.
