Page 88 of The Bonds of Indigo

She takes the napkin, smoothing it against her palm before dragging her nail across the scabbed-over wound on her thumb from earlier. Watching her draw blood from a distance had been intoxicating; now, this close—seeing the red well up and bead—I can barely restrain myself from grabbing her hand and tasting it straight from the source.

Wait. She’s going to write her name with her blood?!

“Amarah Holloway, don’t you dare.”

She ignores me entirely. Her thumb presses to the napkin, and the moment she drags the first stroke I reach for her wrist. But she’s already moving, quick.

I. V. Y.

“What a beautiful name,” he says as she hands it back.

“Don’t tell anyone. You know the drill.”

She licks her lips and brings her thumb to her mouth, sucking gently.

“Brat.”

“Brute.”

“Well, I do hope we cross paths again…” Rane’s gaze lifts to me first, lingering far too long. I don’t like the empty look in his eyes—no pupils, just an endless, unnatural blue. I can’t remember if other Necroth looked like that, but it’s unnerving. “Yesenia, let’s go.”

“Call me if you’re in town, Atlas,” Yesenia chimes, flashing him a bright smile. “Make sure you bring your friends. We can make it a double date.”

We watch them walk away, and Atlas steps up beside me wearing a shit-eating grin. “When you’re around, Butcher, I never get the ladies. I was beginning to think you were a cock-block, but ahhh, I’ve still got it.”

I groan and roll my eyes.

“Don’t call her, Atlas,” Amarah says quietly, stepping closer to us. There’s a seriousness in her expression that even makes me keep my mouth shut. “You can get your dick wet elsewhere.”

He groans. “But… she’s fucking hot! Take away the Witch thing, and what’s the problem?”

As she’s talking, I look down and notice her thumb still bleeding from writing her name.

“Just trust me. I don’t get a good feeling about them.”

She glances up at me as I grab her hand gently and press my shirt against the wound to stop the bleeding. She doesn’t pull away, surprising both of us, apparently.

“Listen to her, Atlas,” I mutter. “I don’t like them either.”

“Nooo,” he drawls, pointing at me. “You don’t like Rane because he was flirting with”—he shifts to pointing at Amarah—“her. But let’s hurry and leave. The news crew look like they’re ready to combust for a headline.”

It took us five days to get back into Alameris. The route dragged us all the way down Central Lake, up toward Ashfer, and then east along the northernmost mountains. This place is probably the greenest we’ve seen—and will see again—once we leave. We can’t stay on this side of the continent for long. Even though we’re three states away from Orwyn, it still feels too close to Thornegate.

Before we made the final trek toward the Vortices, we stopped for food and a real toilet before returning to roughing it. Amarah and I don’t mind it, but I can tell Atlas is getting tired of the outdoors. He doesn’t complain outright, but every time a bug gets in his face, he shoots me a sidelong glance.

The truck is parked down at the tourist station by the waterfall, which means we’re hiking. Because Atlas refuses to be carried by me, we’re doing this Mundane-style. I’m fine, but I can see it wearing on both of them as the hours drag on.

Amarah was stubborn too, until she nearly rolled her ankle, and instead of letting me cradle her like I have before, she jabbed a finger toward my back. So here I am, giving her a piggyback ride.

I can’t say I’m complaining, and maybe I should be angry at myself for enjoying how tightly pressed against me she is, but I can’t seem to lie to myself today.

Her arms tighten around my neck as she adjusts, and because her legs can’t hook around my waist, I know she’s not nearly as comfortable as she would be if she’d let me carry her properly. This is the second time I’ve put my hands behind my back to cup her ass to help support her weight—and the second time she’s jabbed her heel into my gut in warning. Doesn’t hurt, but the message is clear.

Don’t touch me.

I guess all that concern she showed back in Ambarka was surface-level. She still doesn’t want conversation, or care, or to be touched.

I’m deprived, that’s all this is. Too many factors making me crave something I know I shouldn’t want. It’s frustrating, and I guess it makes me… want her.