The first shot shattered the driver’s side window, showering me in a crystalline spray of safety glass.
Pain exploded in my shoulder—white-hot and blinding. Then my side. Then my thigh. I felt the wet, rapid heat of my own blood instantly soaking through my shirt. I pulled my gun, my fingers slick and fumbling against the grip as the copper smell filled the air, but the world was already tilting on its axis.
The motorcycle tore off through the red light, fading into the distance as my vision blurred into a heavy, dark red.
My hand slipped uselessly off the wheel. I felt the car roll forward into the intersection, but my foot couldn't find the brake. The air in the cabin tasted like metallic copper and gunpowder.
The last thing I thought before everything went completely black was how Indigo looked dancing that very first day.
Chapter 36
Indigo
The bass was low and dirty in the back room of the studio, the kind of heavy, industrial vibration that usually made me feel alive. But today, it just felt like a warning I was actively ignoring.
I had set this lesson up on purpose. I was playing a dangerous, desperate game of redirection. Tasha was up on the center pole, moving like liquid sin in tiny black shorts and a cropped top. She was sexy as fuck—smooth light skin, light brown eyes, a petite but thick body that moved with a practiced, effortless grace. She was throwing ass like she wanted Cooly to completely lose his mind, every roll of her hips a calculated invitation.
I’d hoped that if Cooly saw her in her element, maybe his focus would finally shift. Maybe he’d stop looking at me like I was the only woman left on earth. I really wanted to maintain a friendship with him, but he was becoming too much—too intense, too present—and Malachai would probably choke both of us to death if he walked in at the wrong time.
But Cooly wasn’t watching Tasha.
He sat leaned back in the leather chair like a king on his throne, his locs loose and draped over his broad shoulders, his gold chains catching the low, red studio light. His eyes were locked on me. Just me. I was standing off to the side in a baggy hoodie and leggings, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, trying to play matchmaker, but his gaze was stripping the layers away. Out of my periphery, I saw that every time Tasha arched her back orexecuted a slow, heavy roll of her hips, Cooly would glance at her for half a second out of politeness, then slide right back to me.
Tasha grinned mid-spin, clearly enjoying the audience, completely unaware that she was dancing for a man whose attention was securely anchored elsewhere.
Suddenly, my phone started ringing on the table right beside him. The sharp sound cut through the heavy bass like a serrated blade. Cooly picked it up, glanced at the screen, and his expression instantly hardened into something unreadable. He stood and brought it over to me as I slid down the metal pole, the sudden friction stinging my bare skin.
“It’s Caine,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
“Caine?” I felt a ball of dread ignite in my belly, hot and heavy. Caine didn't call my personal line for small talk.
I took the phone with trembling fingers, pressing it to my ear. “Caine?”
“Indigo.” His voice was grim, completely stripped of its usual smooth, detached charm. “Malachai’s been shot. Multiple times. He’s at Tampa General. He's in the operating room right now.”
The world didn't just tilt; it shattered into a million jagged pieces. My knees buckled as the oxygen instantly left the room. Tasha moved fast, catching my weight before I hit the floor, her sweat-slicked arms the only thing keeping me upright on my feet.
“What? When? Who—” The questions were jagged fragments, tearing at my throat.
“It happened about an hour ago. Highway on-ramp. A motorcycle drive-by. We’re all heading to the hospital now.”
An hour ago.
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the chest, bringing the first sting of hot, panicked tears to my eyes. An hour ago, I was laughing. I was dancing. I was watching Cooly watch me. While my husband was being torn apart by lead on a concrete ramp, I was playing matchmaking games in a dim room.
“I’m on my way,” I choked out.
I hung up and blindly reiterated everything Caine had told me, the words falling out of my mouth in a frantic, senseless rush to Tasha.
Cooly was right there, his presence suddenly feeling suffocating. “I’ll drive you.”
I didn’t argue. I couldn’t think, couldn't breathe, couldn't even feel my own feet moving. We ran out the back exit, leaving a stunned Tasha to lock up the studio behind us. The thirty-minute drive felt like an absolute eternity in a vacuum. I sat in the passenger seat, my nails digging deep into my palms, hot tears finally spilling over and tracking through my makeup. I kept seeing Malachai’s face—that cold, beautiful, mechanical mask—and wondered if I’d ever see it move again.
“Go,” Cooly said quietly as we pulled up to the emergency entrance. He reached over, squeezing my hand once, his touch steady and grounding while I was literally vibrating out of my skin. “I’ll park the car and come find you.”
I nodded blindly and ran. My legs felt like lead as I pushed through the sliding glass doors.
The waiting room smelled like bleach and impending death. Maya spotted me first, her face already streaked with her own tears, and pulled me into a crushing hug that smelled like home and tragedy. Caine, Kael, and Raziel were already there. Their faces were carved in expressions that looked like weathered stone—hard, unforgiving, and deadly.
