Page 107 of The Bonds of Indigo

“Gods, I’m soaked. Are there towels or napkins under the seats?”

“Sorry. They’ve got construction equipment stored under there. No room for much else. In hindsight, we probably should’ve tossed it.”

She pushes her hair back behind her ear, rainwater dripping from the ends. “Probably.”

With a sigh, she pulls off her sweater, revealing an equally drenched undershirt, then rummages through the duffle. And, surprise to absolutely no one, everything is soaked.

“Great,” she mutters.

I hum. “Here.”

Shrugging off my jean jacket, I tug my T-shirt over my head. “Take your clothes off.”

Her mouth falls open, but no words come out. Just her gaze flicking down my chest in a way she’ll absolutely deny later. I let her have her moment—her moment of weakness, as she’d call it, I’m sure—before clearing my throat.

“Close your eyes,” she demands.

“I’m not the one ogling.”

I really, truly enjoy the shade her face turns when she’s flustered. The red that brings out every one of her freckles. And even the scar crossing her nose, something she probably hates. I think it makes her face even more striking.

She goes stubbornly silent.

I roll my eyes before closing them.

Rain slams against the truck in steady sheets, each drop drumming hollowly across the roof and windshield. Beneath it, the softer sounds, wet fabric peeling away from skin, clothes dragging across the seat, filter through.

I never claimed to be a good man.

So yes, I definitely peek the moment I know her shirt is over her head.

She’s still wearing a bra—unfortunate for me—but it doesn’t hide the tattoo across her sternum and between her breasts. I saw it better in the hot spring… and was burned into my memory then.

Now it’s even harder to forget.

The tattoo is symmetrical, ornamental—an intricate lotus-like motif centered at her sternum, nestled between her breasts. Below it, chains of ink drip like beaded chandeliers, trailing down her torso and tapering right to her belly button… where her skirt annoyingly cuts off the rest.

The second her shirt comes off, I shut my eyes again and let her finish undressing without peeking.

My top is torn from my hand, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s followed immediately by her huff and an exasperated, “Ugh.”

“Can I look?”

Her movements grow more frantic—fabric rustling, a few small thumps—then she stills and lets out a resigned breath.

“Yes.”

I open my eyes then.

I’ve seen her in my shirt before, in those days after I broke her out. But this?

This is different.

The plain black fabric hangs off her frame, draping down her thighs to just above her knees. Her soaking white hair contrasts starkly against it as she sweeps it over her right shoulder and begins braiding from the nape downward, until the lengths get uneven and the braid falls apart.

I’m going to offer to cut it for her when we stop next.

Maybe she’ll even let me shave her legs again. I can see the hairs returning. The way she rubs them together and tries to tuck them out of sight makes me wonder if she cares about it, or if she just doesn’t want me looking at her skin.