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“Hell no.” His hand rested on her thigh. “Now, rest.” He gave her a friendly pat. “I’ll take a fast shower. I gotta step out for a bit. When I return, I’ll order some soup. In the meantime, sleep. Understand me?”
She nodded. “Was I hurt bad?”
“Yes, Indy.”
“Were you worried about me?”
“Yes, Indy.”
“Really worried?”
He gave her his showstopper grin again. “Really, really, really worried.”
“Only three reallys? I think I rate more,” she teased.
“Add as many as you want while I clean your blood off me.” He slid from the bed, undressed, and padded toward the bathroom, naked. The tattooed wings of the Phoenix on his back fluttered, his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and tight glutes on display for her entertainment.
Good to know she wasn’t too injured to admire Roark’s fine body parts. She shouted at his retreating form. “I want you to know I’m well enough to play Tumble the Witch once you’re clean.”
Without Roark’s body to feast her eyes on, Indigo gazed at the wound on her chest again, letting the sheet slip. Had she really told the kinda-shifter she loved him? Yep. She didn’t think he heard her. Did she love him? Unsure. He had secrets. Pot. Kettle. Black. She’d had a lifetime of secrets. And was tired of them.
She closed her eyes. Perhaps she was just plain exhausted. A short nap could help. Instead, her sleep was fitful, interrupted by memories.
At twenty years old, Indigo still lived under her father Tor’s roof.
He was a warlock with weak gifts, a bad disposition, and unwarranted jealousy when it came to his mate. He hadn’t always been that way, but he was then. On his best days, he railed against the world’s injustices, drinking too many Demon Brews, gambling away what little money the family had. On his worst, he took his anger out on Indigo’s mother, who hid bruises or broken bones beneath long-sleeved blouses and skirts. No one knew of Tor’s rages.
Her father’s abusive nature was the first secret.
Indigo had recently come through her Awakening, quite early for her breed. She possessed great power. Her plan was to pack and leave home, freeing herself of her father’s tyranny.
The front door opened. Indigo straightened, shoving back her shoulders. She prepared to beg her mother to come along. But something wasn’t right. No matter what, Adriana’s step was always light, happy. Not so now. It was stumbling, labored. The young witch closed her suitcase, rushing downstairs.
Adriana was slumped into the worn couch, her dress torn, leaves tangled in her hair, and tears streaking through the dirt on her face.
Something bad had happened.
Indigo gently clasped her mother’s elbow, guiding her into the bedroom to remove her shoes, dress, and petticoats. Assisted, Adriana stepped into a soothing herbal bath. Unresponsive, she allowed her daughter to shampoo her hair, wash her skin, dry her off, and help her into night clothes. At her bed, she slipped between the blankets. Though her head rested on a pillow, her lids did not close.
Adriana spoke, her voice without feeling. “The incubus had such cold blue eyes. When he finished with me, he vowed he was sorry. He straightened my skirts though he made me rise unassisted. I lay in the dirt. Alone.” She clutched Indigo’s hand tight, making the daughter wince. “Your father must know nothing of this. He would never believe I resisted.”
Another family secret.
When Tor returned, Indigo pried her mother’s fingers loose. She left the bedroom to greet him, explaining Adriana was asleep, ill, overtaken with a rare fever. Her father, a male who disliked his routine interrupted, acquiesced to Indigo’s suggestion he spend the night in the parlor. She prepared dinner, cleaned up, and arranged a pallet for him before checking on her mother. Afterward, she retired to her own room.
Once in bed, Indigo trembled with fear. Dread, like a dark shadow, absorbed the light, the very air while it crept through the house.
In the weeks to come, Adriana curled inside herself. Tor, always hot tempered, grew quiet. He followed his mate’s every action, never complaining when she was tired, never snarling when she was sick.
Indigo observed them both, waiting.
Then Adriana announced she was with child. Tor was elated.
While her mother grew, Tor’s elation was tempered with doubt. Though he had desired a son in the years since Indigo’s birth, Adriana had been unable to get pregnant. Why now?
Mother and daughter exchanged dubious glances day after day. The father was wary.
Adriana moved automatically through life, preparing a cradle, knitting booties, buying fabric spun by a neighbor, and hand-stitching baby clothes. With Tor, she chose names. He offered only male names.
