Page 65 of The Bonds of Indigo

A little unhinged.

“What, Atlas?” I grumble.

He beams and plants his hands on his hips, like he’s posing for a fucking calendar. “Hey, I bring amazing news. So be nice.”

I take one eager step toward him. “Tell me.”

“A gate opened.”

Finally.

We cut back through the trees to camp. We haven’t been here long—just a few hours—but Amarah is already extinguishing the small fire she built. She’s wearing an oversized sweater over that long damn dress. I once asked why she refuses to wear pants; she ignored me like I wasn’t even speaking.

She doesn’t look at us as we approach, even though I know she heard every footfall toward her.

“We can hike to the location,” Atlas says, moving past me to grab a small pack. “About thirty minutes.”

“Or two if Butcher just carries⁠—”

Atlas cuts her off immediately. “I am not going to be carried.”

She exhales and finally turns to face me.

In the weeks we’ve been trapped together, her body has filled out. Her jawline is still sharp, but no longer hollow. Her cheeks have lifted, rounded, even without a smile. The bruised darkness around her eyes has lightened, though the scars scattered across her face remain. They always will. She can’t heal like the rest of us Dylox, surprisingly.

Doesn’t stop me from wishing she could.

From hoping one day she’ll step out of her tent and they’ll be gone.

Her dress and sweater hide everything else, but I know she’s put on weight. I can only assume her body has gained muscle and fat, especially from all the walking we’ve been doing, and eating she’s been able to do.

But I can’t see anything as she covers everything at all times.

Not that I want to see her. Because I don’t. That’s the last thing I’m interested in.

Liar, that poisonous voice snaps in the back of my head.

“Then he can carry me, and we will go first,” she says.

I haven’t touched her since the first night camping. And even then… it wasn’t nearly enough to sate anything in me. Not that it should’ve mattered. Not that it should’ve felt like anything.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Atlas says, hands planted on his hips. “I’d just slow you both down. I’ll text the coordinates and get to walking.”

“No need.” Her voice is flat as stone—no emotion, no hint of anything beneath. “I can sense it from here.”

She steps toward me and lifts an arm, and I don’t even think.

I just scoop her up.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My arm slides beneath her knees, the other supporting the middle of her back. She’s definitely heavier than when I first hauled her around—healthier. Warm. Solid. And when my fingers graze the underside of her arm to draw her closer, her hip presses into my abdomen, soft curves against hard muscle, setting off a fuse I should’ve stomped out weeks ago.

I swallow hard.

Too hard.

“North,” she murmurs. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”