Page 179 of The Bonds of Indigo

Chapter 45

Ithought I could keep my hands off him but, and I will never tell Amarah this… that was stupid of me. I’m not going to tell her because I’m not an idiot, but the idea itself absolutely was. I hated being away from him for a few days, and after four hundred years I thought I could manage not touching him?

Pfft. Delusional thinking.

After finally finding a way to peel myself off him, he guided me to a half bath to wash up where he mentioned that he’ll have to shower before seeing his father. That really does piss me off.

We’ll dive deeper into that later, and with Amarah present. She deserves to understand it just as much as I do, because while he left me, doing so dragged her into this journey.

It does make sense now, though. Why he left. If his father threatened my life, slipping out of my world entirely would’ve been the easiest way for him to protect me.

However, I’m still pissed, because fuck Belial. He thinks he gets any say over what’s mine? I don’t care if his sperm created Lucifer. My little deviant owes nothing to that ruler of hot rocks and corpses.

As we move back through the foyer, I take in the vintage style of the home. Dark wood lines the walls and the slightly vaulted ceilings. Stained glass decorates the front door and the archways—elements that, in the mortal world, have been outdated for a millennium. It has charm, though, which doesn’t surprise me coming from him, but there’s nothing feminine about it. Although Lucifer is submissive to me, I’ve never treated him like a woman.

I prefer his masculinity. If I wanted a woman, I’d have one—which now I do. I love his sharp features and strong frame beneath me just as much as I love Amarah’s softness. His groans and moans are those of a God, where hers are like a Siren ready to drag me into the deep.

I’ll take them both. Without question, without argument.

As he turns us down a hall lined with paintings reminiscent of the mountains we used to climb together, I take it in. I’ll need more time to explore this place; when we were together he saw my spaces, but I never once stepped into any of his. Which… again, makes sense, considering we are quite literally in the Beyond.

“Want to tell me who she is to you?” he asks, voice dropping to a whisper.

I chuckle. “Long story, but the short version is I broke her out of prison, forced her into a blood pact so she could open the gates to get to you, accidentally got bonded to her, fell for her, and now… here we are.”

That earns a soft laugh from him. “Bloody Beyond. Nothing can ever be simple in your life, can it?”

“No… no it can’t.”

He gently pushes open a door that leads into a small sitting area—too small to be a bedroom or a living room, but cozy enough. A fire crackles in the fireplace. A single couch sits across from it. Bookshelves line the walls, not overflowing, but stocked enough to show their purpose. And resting on the lone piece of furniture is Amarah, back to us, a knitted blanket draped over her.

Zuhara is curled beside her, head resting on my girl’s hip. Her large eyes open when we enter.

“We didn’t get far. Poor thing was exhausted,” she whispers.

I cross the room and drop onto one knee in front of the couch. The feline doesn’t move, just watches me curiously. Amarah’s chest rises slowly, her breathing even. Instead of picking her up, I gently brush her hair away from her shoulder and down her back, positioning it so it won’t snag if she shifts.

Lucifer approaches behind me, then lowers himself beside his Familiar. “The scars… she didn’t have them when I met her. I saw her back, and obviously her face. And even though I didn’t see her naked before today, I can’t imagine the one carved into her lower stomach was there back then.”

My fingers trace along her arm, watching the fine hairs to see if she reacts. She’s good at keeping her heartbeat steady, but her body can’t hide how she feels when I touch her. When she doesn’t stir, I settle further onto the ground and glance over at my Incubus.

He’s watching her, curiosity and want flickering in his violet eyes.

“She got them as punishment for a crime she didn’t commit when they threw her in that prison.”

“Are they dead?” His tone is calm, but unlike my girl, he can’t keep his heart from telling me how angry that makes him.

“Yes, but they deserved so much worse.” I drag my hand across her upper back, counting a dozen small lash marks. Some deep, others shallow. And beneath them, the ones I know hurt the most. The memory of them. “I can’t heal her either, which pisses me off.”

“I like them.”

I know he doesn’t mean the way she got them, but it doesn’t lessen the anger that flares in me at the words.

“For someone like me—who can’t even be marked by ink—they’re… exquisite. Not the one near her groin, though. That one, we’ll fix. But the scars on her back, on her face. They don’t diminish her. I’d even say they belong. Living with the memories but not the evidence… that can mess with your head. I think you and I both understand how damaging that can be.”

He’s right, of course.

I look at Amarah and see a survivor. Someone who’s beaten odds that shouldn’t have been survivable. A fighter who wears the scars of trauma and rises stronger, not because of them, but because she simply can.