Page 31 of The Bonds of Indigo

“I slept enough with that knockout you gave me,” she snarls, irritation clear. “Besides, I must’ve been out for hours. It looks like midday. We can go now and get this over with.”

I pull out a black T-shirt, yank the bag closed, and step back to her. “This’ll work like a dress. I’ll burn it when you’re done.”

She huffs and starts toward the bathroom. Her head snaps back; she looks down at my feet and I follow her gaze. A solid clump of white hair lies under my bare foot.

She gathers it up with a long, hollow sigh. “I’m guessing you don’t carry scissors.”

“Nope.”

A sound escapes her—something akin to sadness—and for no reason I can name, it presses at my chest. “I know you’re dying to mutilate me,” she says, and I have no idea why it pisses me off. “Tear my hair, please.” She sweeps the thick white mane into her hands and brings it down to the middle of her back. “Here.”

I narrow my eyes before grabbing beneath her hands with one hand, and with the other, I take a fistful lower down. “Let me ask you something.”

She clutches the shirt to her chest. “The answer is yes.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

Her chin lifts, defiance in her indigo eyes. “You’re going to ask if I did it.”

My jaw tightens. “And your answer is yes?”

There’s only a moment of hesitation before she says, “I’m guilty, Butcher.”

I feel my pulse thud in my temples, my nostrils flaring. Then, I pull hard, tearing several feet of her hair free.

Amarah sniffled most of the time she was in the shower. I couldn’t tell if she was full-blown crying or not, and even with the television volume cranked as high as it would go, I could still hear her.

I’m too empathetic for this. I shouldn’t feel bad in the slightest, and yet my heart’s trying to. My brain—while not the brightest of my internal organs—is the smartest one in this moment. It knows what she’s capable of.

I’d spent time researching the incident before breaking her out. Absolutely tragic. And regardless of my so-called big heart, I need to… keep my head on straight…

Motherfucker.

She’s stepping out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel twisted on top of her head, and drowning in my shirt. That’s hot. Not her, I mean, the presentation of…

Her eyes lift and narrow on me.

I’m surprised she kept the long sleeves of the shirt she wore under the gown.

There’s no dirt on her face now, and where I thought some of the freckles might’ve been smudges, they aren’t. The scar across her nose is redder than before, and now I can see the smaller ones tracing her jawline. They’re faint, but visible from here, even sitting on the bed several feet away.

“Can I borrow some boxers?”

I glance down at her legs, covered in hair up to her knees where my shirt begins.

“You put your dirty undershirt on, but won’t put your underwear back on?”

Her jaw ticks and her cheeks flush. “Never mind. Let’s just go.”

“I’m watching the game.” I jest, and she leans over to check the television, where the news is on. “We can’t rush out of here. Sit down and we will go shortly.”

“Fine,” she huffs, leaning against the bathroom door. “Who are we looking for?”

“That’s none of your business. You can meet this person when we find them.”

A sharp, irritated tut slips from her. “Alright… Can you explain why you needed me to help you locate someone? Location spells aren’t difficult, a Hexborn could have assisted with enough money. Or… you know… the authorities.”

“So eager to be hurt,” I say, my voice lowering. I want her to understand before it’s too late, that her tone won’t make this easier on her. “Trust me, not many can do what I need you to do for me.”