Page 48 of Toxic B!tch

The words sink in, sharp and ugly, burrowing into my brain like maggots feasting on rotting flesh.

I pull back, blinking slowly.

“You want to fuck my boyfriend?” My voice is calm, smooth as glass.

She doesn’t seem to realize her mistake yet. “I just—I mean, if that would fix it?—”

“My. Fucking. Boyfriend?” My voice rises now, sharp and jagged, fury boiling over like lava threatening to consume everything in its path.

Elle opens her mouth to say something else—maybe to backpedal, maybe to beg—but I don’t give her the chance.

I slam the knife into her chest, just to the left of her breastbone, the point sinking deep enough to draw blood but missing her heart by a hair.

Her scream pierces the night, echoing through the trees.

I grin.

“Is this what you wanted?” I hiss, ripping the blade out with a sickening sound, only to drag it in a slow, deliberate slice down the curve of her breast. The silicone implant resists, but not for long.

Elle shrieks, thrashing, her body jerking against the restraints. Blood spills down her torso, dripping onto the forest floor.

I carve deeper, ignoring the mess, ignoring the way she sobs and pleads.

I get to what I want.

And I rip the fucking implant from her chest.

Elle wails, her head snapping back, her body convulsing in agony.

I toss the implant aside, watching as it lands in the dirt with a soft, wet thud.

She’s a slobbering, screaming, drooling mess.

And I just laugh.

Because she’s going to be beautiful when I’m done with her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MALIK

Indigo has been off. More off than usual. She’s quiet, distracted—like her mind is somewhere else, and I don’t know how to reach her.

The other night, she drained me dry. I’m not complaining, but something about it felt… different. Desperate. Like she was trying to lose herself in me, bury something deep beneath pleasure until it suffocated. I fucked her, ate her, pulled orgasm after orgasm from her body, and still—she wanted more. No matter how much I gave, it wasn’t enough.

And now, she’s been quiet.

I finish my beer in one long drag and toss the bottle into the trash. It clatters against the others, too loud in the quiet of my house. I don’t like this. I don’t like not knowing where she is, what’s going on in her head.

I grab my phone and dial her number. It rings and rings and rings—then cuts to voicemail.

“You’ve reached Indigo. If you’re hearing this, I either don’t want to talk to you, or I’m busy. Try again later.”

I curse under my breath and shoot her a text.

Me: Where are you?

Me: Call me.