Page 75 of The Bonds of Indigo

“He did.” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “The first time we were on the phone, he said it.”

“Yet you’ve called me Butcher.”

When he finally leans back, I can breathe again and suck in a lungful of air like I’ve been drowning.

“Don’t like my name?” he muses while continuing his efforts on my leg. “Hate it?”

“Hate its owner.”

He laughs at that, low and warm. “Whatever you say, little slayer.”

I roll my eyes, refusing to ask why he insists on calling me that. It’s literal, sure—but why the little part? I’m shorter than him, yes, but nearly everyone in this realm is. He’s a walking monolith. Does he not know that?

When he starts stroking my leg the same way he did the other, he sets the broken razor aside. His hand—checking for any missed spots—glides up, stopping just… above… my knee.

My heart stutters.

“All done.”

“T-Thanks.”

He plants his palms on his thighs and stands, stepping back so I can rise. I tug the drawstring of my robe tight, ensuring every inch of me is covered.

“What’s with the blanket over the mirror?”

I’d not had to worry about seeing my reflection anywhere since we started ‘camping’. But now, the thought of the Grimhorn finding me has me constantly on edge.

I give him a stiff, fake smile. “I don’t like my reflection.”

Leading us out of the bathroom, I reach for the door handle, only for Butcher’s hand to land onto it, holding it shut. I square myself to him right as he steps into my space.

My Gods, this man doesn’t believe in personal space.

“H-Hey!”

“Amarah.”

The deep timbre of his voice vibrates under my skin, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from making a sound. “You hate having your bubble invaded. Which is exactly why I love doing it. You’ll give me anything just to get me to back off.”

His hand lifts to cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. He braces his weight on his opposite arm, leaning over me, caging me in without touching anything he doesn’t have to.

“Last question,” he murmurs, “and then I’ll leave you.”

I nod quickly.

“Why do you keep lying to me? Just tell me the truth to that one question. Consider it my parting thank-you gift.”

My heart slams against my ribs. Heat rolls through me, fierce and consuming—like he’s the flame, and I’m the match he’s striking to life.

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t know the answer.

Because I do. It won’t be what he wants to hear… but it’ll be exactly what he asked for.

No. I’m hesitating because I don’t know if I want him to stop invading my space.

This closeness… this suffocation… it doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like safety.