Page 120 of The Bonds of Indigo

“Who wrote that?”

I shut my eyes and bite down on my bottom lip so hard I immediately taste copper.

His large, warm hand cups my cheek, thumb dragging gently across the bridge of my nose.

“The cook. It’s…” I swallow. “Why I was adamant about him being dead.”

The frustration in his sigh is molten. “He used a razor, didn’t he?”

Just above my pubic bone is a scar carved into me: Witch whore. It wasn’t true, not until they made me what they branded me as.

So that was who I was to them.

A whore.

“Yes. He’d carved over some of the ones on my back, too…” A chill runs across my scalp. It didn’t matter it was a barber’s razor. I see any shaving tool the same.

His deep breath is steady, but I can feel the heat of it as it’s released. “It doesn’t stop there, does it?” He places his hands against my hips, his thumbs brushing down my hipbones. “I’m going to assume the moment I spread your beautiful legs, I’m going to see more.”

My exhale is shaky, and I can feel myself starting to crumble. It’s not even the violence of the memories, it’s the humiliation. The shame. Had I fought for my innocence, maybe they wouldn’t have been able to do those things.

I just… gave up. Let them have me.

“Amarah.” He pulls me flush against him. “I consider myself a dom in the bed. I’m feral for what I want, and I’m not soft.”

I nod. A little too quickly.

I could already tell he was a dom, but it’s strange how his presence—of all people—makes my body instinctively want to submit.

Especially like this.

“For anyone but you,” he continues, a low rumble like a distant storm in his voice, “and Luce. I am going to dominate you. But I’m equally going to take care of you.” His thumb strokes my cheek again. “And, little slayer… I know exactly how to do that. If you’ll let me.”

My chin trembles, and I manage a small smile, before nodding again.

“Thank you.”

A soft gasp escapes me as suddenly, I’m weightless. On instinct, I wrap my arms around his neck as he lifts me. He takes a single step to my right, drops to his knees in the shower, and sets me down on the tiny corner ledge—one barely large enough for my hips to fit.

His hand comes to my jaw, thumb brushing softly before he drags it down the center of my chest. He traces the line from the tip of my tattoo… all the way down to the carved words.

“They don’t do anything to take away from how beautiful you are, Amarah,” he murmurs, voice a low, dangerous rumble. “But make no mistake. I’m pissed.”

He rises in one smooth motion and steps out of the shower. I hear the cabinet open. My breath is unsteady by the time he returns—bare now except for his briefs, droplets sliding down his chest. He kneels again, holding a razor in his hand, then meets my gaze.

“Take a deep breath,” he says softly, firmly. “And let me take care of you.”

And I allow him to, because I do trust this man that has turned my life upside down.

I don’t know how long we stay like this—him starting at my left leg, working slowly, carefully, reverently, before moving to the right. His touch is sure and gentle. So gentle it almost breaks me more than pain ever has.

He asks about the prison.

And I tell him.

Not every detail—not the ones that don’t matter—but enough. Enough for him to understand.

They raped and mutilated me.