Page 121 of The Bonds of Indigo

How and how often don’t matter.

What matters is that every single one of them is dead.

I didn’t lie when I said that if he killed everyone there, then nobody still living knows what I feel like, taste like, smell like.

That’s justice to me.

They will face their God, but they will no longer breathe the same air I do. Vendra’s world is better for it.

When he gently spreads my thighs to move his attention higher, a jolt of fear locks every muscle in my body.

He stills immediately, before reassuring me with a gentle smile and the same words as before: “Let me take care of you.”

Then proceeds to remind me that he’ll be between my thighs very soon in the way he wants. While then making a comment about the bond, and how clearly he can feel what I’m feeling, which means I should feel what he does as well.

And my heart almost falls apart in my chest.

I have to give him credit—he’s extremely perceptive.

And he was right.

The moment I placed my foot on his shoulder and he began shaving me in the most private place a person can touch, the bond lit up with everything he felt. Desire. A fierce need to protect. A possession so potent it settled low in my belly and coiled there, throbbing. A feral hunger that made my entire core tighten.

There wasn’t a single drop of disgust from him; not at the scars on my thighs, not at the one he could only see from this vulnerable position.

They’d had to stitch me after so much abuse, said I was “too loose,” as if it were my fault for the torture they put on me. So now there’s a small scar where the sutures were.

I never cared about how it looked. It’s not like I sat with a mirror between my legs, studying myself.

But with Kayn on his knees, looking right at me while touching me with such reverence… I’ve never felt so exposed in my life.

He listens the entire time and asks questions softly, like he’s smoothing balm over old wounds while tidying me up with steady hands.

One of those questions was about my period, and honestly, it almost made me cry. It was so unexpectedly gentle. So considerate.

I told him the truth: that I don’t have one. They sterilized me years ago. Said “a murdering bitch needs spaying so she doesn’t bring more monsters into the world.”

That indigo string between us vibrated with rage, though he never showed any violence in front of me. He kept himself composed… but I knew how angry he was.

When he was done, leaving a strip of hair to not completely make me bald, he washed my hair and then dried me off.

Truly, he took care of me.

More than anyone ever has.

Even now, he has me sitting on the counter so he can peel off his boxers—only because he declared I’m “not allowed to stand until tomorrow,” for no reason other than pure dominance.

“You’re staying, right?” I ask as he lifts me again, carrying me out of the bathroom like I weigh nothing.

He chuckles. It’s deep, warm, and the vibration running straight through my shoulder pressed to his chest. “Oh, little slayer…”

Alright, fine. The nickname is growing on me.

I am technically that—just not of the people of Sylverton.

He sets me on the bed with a gentleness that jars me more than any rough-handling could have. I have to tilt my head all the way back to keep his face in view. I stayed completely naked, though he wrapped a towel around his hips to “keep himself from being impulsive,” as he put it.

It does absolutely nothing to stop me from admiring him.