"I know," he said, his arms locking around me like an iron vice. "But he is. He's done."
I snatched away from him and spun. My palm connected with his cheek. The crack echoed off the walls.
"I hate you!" My voice echoed back at me, sounding wild. Foreign.
I hit him again. His head snapped to the side. "I hate you for letting her near me!"
Another slap. His lip split. Blood dripped down his chin. "I hate you for not protecting us!"
My fists pounded his chest. He didn't move. Didn't block me.
"I hate you," I whispered. My knees gave out.
He caught me. Pulled me against his chest. I felt his heartbeat. Steady. Mine was everywhere.
"I know," he said.
I buried my face in his shirt. Sobbed until my throat burned. He held me. Didn't let go. But it only lasted a few minutes, the adrenaline vanishing as quickly as it had arrived, leaving me limp in his arms.
The ride back was even quieter than the way there, but the silence was different now—it was like my mind had fallen into a void. By the time we reached the house, I was shaking so violently I could barely stand. Malachai picked me up from the car and carried me into the house, going straight to the bathroom to turn on the shower.
He set me on my feet under the spray, peeling my clothes off for me. The water ran hot on my naked skin—scaldingly hot—but I didn't care.
As he began to rub the soap and rag across my arms, I looked down at my hands. They were clean. The water had seen to that minutes ago, but I could still feel the weight of the knife in my head. Feel his warm blood on my skin. The smell was still in my nose.
"Harder," I whispered, my voice cracking.
He paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes meeting mine through the curtain of steam, before he increased the pressure.
"Harder, Malachai," I commanded, my voice rising with a desperate edge. "Scrub it off. Get it off me."
He didn't argue. He braced one hand against the wall behind me to steady me as I swayed.
"I can still hear them," I said, the words spilling out into the space between us. I wasn't even sure if he could hear me over the roar of the shower. "I hear them crying, and no matter what I do, I can't make it stop."
The shower curtain drifted open just an inch. Malachai's hand reached through, holding a glass.
"Drink this," he commanded quietly.
I didn't ask what it was. I just took it and swallowed. Whatever it was worked quick. The world began to blur at the edges a couple of minutes later.
I woke up to a dark room. I was in bed. Naked. I could smell the soap on my skin. My flesh felt bruised. The sheets were tangled around my legs. Malachai's arm was across my stomach. His breathing was slow. Even.
I turned. Looked at his face in the dark. The shadows under his eyes. The sharp line of his jaw.
"Malachai."
He woke up immediately. Like he hadn't been sleeping at all. "What's wrong?"
"Make me feel better."
He blinked. "Indigo—"
"Make me forget." I tugged him toward me. "Please. Just for tonight. Make me forget."
I told myself I didn't want him. I wanted the silence.
He looked at me for a long time. Then his hand came up. Cupped my face.