Page 37 of Malachai
He cleared his throat.
Maya didn’t move. She just tightened her hold for a second, then turned her head slowly.
“Why you in here acting like I’m about to steal her coochie or something?” she said, eyebrows raised.
He didn’t react.
“Your car’s here,” he said simply.
Maya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, let me go take this forty-five-minute trip back home in a car with windows tinted so Black I can’t even see out.”
She hugged me one more time, then left.
Malachai walked her out, then came back.
He looked at the mess. The glass. The stained wall. Then at me.
“Did this make you feel better?”
I mocked him. “Did this regulate your emotions?”
Then I answered honestly.
“No.”
He walked to the couch, sat down, and patted the cushion next to him.
I stayed standing.
“Sit down, Indigo.”
“No.”
He looked up at me with those gray eyes—empty and full at the same time.
“Please.”
That hit me right in the chest. I hated how much I liked it when he said that.
I walked over slowly and sat.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t crowd me.
He just reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and turned the screen toward me.
A picture.
A man. Bloody. Still.
Russian.
“I’m not lying to you,” he said, voice even. “This is one of them.”
My stomach tightened.
“There are more,” he continued. “I am doing what you asked, but it will take time.”
I stared at the screen a second longer, then looked at him.
