Page 70 of The Bonds of Indigo

Only her calves touch me, but it may as well be her entire body in my lap with how sharply my blood heats.

I move my hand down to her leg and rest it lightly over the fabric of her dress.

“We’re going to need to be careful,” Atlas whispers. “If she opens one, that’s going to set off alarms. Every gate that’s opened so far has been from the other side—with the same energy signature. If this one reads differently, they might send a unit to check it out.”

I trail my hand down her leg to her ankle. “Hopefully it won’t need to stay open long.”

I can sense her skin just beneath my palm as I move under the fabric of her clothes.

“What is your plan, exactly?”

“Hope my body can withstand the shift between realms. A source once told me it’s crossing the threshold that kills mortals. Once I’m through…” I shrug lightly. “I should be fine.”

My hand circles her leg as I look down at her. She doesn’t stir. Her heartbeat stays steady.

“That’s quite a risk… Is this ‘source’ the same person you’re trying to reach?”

My thumb glides across her calf, moving higher. “I know. But I’m confident I’ll be fine. And yes—it is.”

A hum slips from me as I reach just beneath her knee. She bought a bunch of razers before we started roughing it, but either they’re terrible, or she just doesn’t use them.

I’m not complaining.

I’m a man who likes everything—pansexual to the extreme. I don’t care what someone is; if I’m attracted, I’m feral. I tend to avoid my own kind because I can’t feed on them. Most men are hairy. Lucifer was the exception. Probably due to his race, but who knows. The man only had hair in the pubic region, and kept obsessively trimmed.

Point is: I don’t mind hair anywhere. Doesn’t bother me in the slightest. It just makes me wonder if she’s struggling—maybe her arm still bothers her? Or maybe something else. Could be that she just doesn’t care, but she always covers her legs, which makes me think she does.

“Have you?” Atlas asks.

I look over at my friend, his elbow braced against the car door, his head tipped into his palm. His other arm rests across the back of the seat, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Have I… what?”

“Asked her more about that night?”

I don’t know why this urge to keep touching her won’t leave me, but it’s there. Constant. My hand drags downward, nails lightly tracing her skin. I can’t get over how fragile she feels, but that’s definitely just her mortal body.

“I haven’t. She doesn’t talk to me, Atlas.”

He huffs a laugh. “I wonder why.”

“She doesn’t talk to you either,” I remind him.

“I know why, that’s the difference.”

“Alright, smartass. Why isn’t she talking to you?”

His hand shifts to her upper arm as he adjusts himself. I’m ready to reach over and stop her head from rolling straight into his crotch when he does it for me. She lets out a soft groan, rolling slightly, facing her back toward the seat—head away from him, legs still draped over my lap. I pull her back just enough to keep her from sliding off. I don’t want her putting her legs down. Not yet.

“She doesn’t trust the kindness I’m giving her. She assumes it’s fake.”

“And… is it?”

“No.” He pauses. “At first, yes. Now…”

I listen for a spike in her pulse, but nothing changes. She’s dead asleep.

“Continue,” I urge.