Page 106 of The Bonds of Indigo

Rain patters against the windshield, filling the silence stretching between us. I have a thousand things I want to ask her—things I’ve been pacing circles around in my head since the springs—but I’m afraid of starting in the wrong place and watching her retreat even farther.

“How’d you sleep?”

The sound of her neck popping snaps my attention over just as she rolls her head around her shoulders. “Alright. How’re you doing? I told you I could drive. I know it’s been a while, but I’m capable.”

I smile. “I know. But I don’t need to sleep. What else would I do with my time?”

Her thoughtful hum is followed by a small, tired laugh. “Sightsee.”

“Not a bad idea.” I turn to look at her, and when our eyes meet, I wink. “There’s always something beautiful to see.”

She makes a soft, strangled noise. Like she’s trying to hide whatever sound almost escaped her. Cute.

“Right…” She clears her throat as the rain lets loose, pounding harder against the roof and windows. “Damn, this came out of nowhere.”

“Nah. It was building for a few miles.”

“Where exactly are we?” She twists around, scanning her window, mine, then the back.

“We should make it to Achien in about eight hours.”

“Sorry for sleeping so long,” she mutters, adjusting in her seat. I hear the click of her seatbelt undoing. When I glance over, she’s staring out the back window, eyebrows pinched tight.

Then suddenly, she screams, “OH MY GOD, STOP THE CAR!!”

Chapter 28

Ihit the brakes hard. Not enough to send her flying, though, because she took her damn seatbelt off.

The second the truck stops, her door is already flung open and she’s gone. I made sure to pull onto the right-hand shoulder so my side faces the traffic, not hers.

“Amarah?!”

She’s already sprinting toward the back of the truck, rain coming down so hard it ricochets off the door straight into her seat. I’m unbuckling when I feel the back of the truck dip.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she chants.

I look over the bench seat and spot her in the bed of the truck, yanking our bags toward her like she’s trying to rescue drowning children.

Ah, shit.

By the time I’m reaching for my door, she’s already leaping down and running back to the cab, soaked through and carrying both duffle bags that are absolutely drenched. She shoves them into the footwell under the glove compartment and throws herself inside, slamming the door behind her.

When her eyes meet mine, she’s a disaster—rain-plastered white hair sticking to her cheeks and throat, sweater clinging to her like a second skin, that black skirt suctioned to her legs. Her bare toes must be freezing.

I turn the heater to max without breaking eye contact.

“You… didn’t think to get the bags?” she says, breathless.

“Honestly, no. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

She huffs, but then smiles. And that smile slowly breaks into a grin, and then into a laugh that could bring a dead man back to life. Pure magic: alive and warm and so, so unexpected.

And I would kill to hear it every day. Every second.

Even this smile—eyes squeezed shut, plump lips parted just enough to show those perfect teeth—hits me harder than it should.

My smile will never compete with hers, but I give her one anyway. When I chuckle, she lets out a long “phew” and drags her palms down her dripping cheeks.