Page 74 of The Bonds of Indigo

“Nope. I’ve got you prisoner; you have to tell me.” To prove it, his grip tightens around my calf and he draws me an inch closer.

Instinctively, my hand flies to my thighs, tugging the robe down as far as it will go. “Is it your arm?”

“No,” I exhale. “I’d rather not say. I need to get over it.”

He glances up again, and this time his voice is gentler. “Please?”

The bond thrums—sharp and electric—running down the tether between us and amplifying the strange sense of safety curling around me. If not for this cursed connection, he’d have had to knock me out cold to get that razor anywhere near my skin. But with the bond… I can feel him. His intent. His restraint. His lack of harm.

“Trauma of a razor,” I finally admit. “The moment I get one close to my skin, I start shaking.”

He freezes mid-movement, so I rush to reassure him. “But you’re fine. I can feel your intention isn’t to hurt me⁠—”

“Yeah… you’re not going to skim right past that.” His chin lifts, crimson eyes locking on mine. “Why would you fear a razor?”

My lips press tight, brows pinching. The bond is making us both too open, too raw—smoothing edges that should stay sharp. I don’t want him knowing what was done to me. He can’t see how broken they left me. He already thinks I’m crazy, already believes I slaughtered all those people… and that’s the image I need him to keep.

“Amarah.” His voice carves into my hesitation.

“Don’t leave one leg done,” I joke weakly. “That’ll feel weird.”

His scowl only deepens.

I sigh. “Fine…” Instead of lying, I give him a partial truth. “They valued good hygiene. As you saw, there weren’t that many women in Thornegate. And since they didn’t trust my hands with a blade, they… shaved my body for me. Most didn’t know what they were doing, and they’d slip from time to time.”

His fists clench hard enough that the veins rise stark beneath his skin. Then I hear a snap.

The plastic razor breaks clean in half.

“Kayn, that was my last one!” I yelp.

I’ve never heard his breath hitch like it does now.

“You had hair on your legs when I met you.”

My stunned stare rises from the ruined razor to his face. “They didn’t do it all the time. Now you’re going to have to run and get⁠—”

“It wasn’t your legs they cared about. Or your fucking armpits. Don’t be funny.”

I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Please don’t push this subject.”

“Why?”

“Because… I don’t need you to. It’s not what you think.” No, because it’s far, far worse. “It’s fine. I’m all good.”

He growls, “I’m going to…” He stops himself momentarily, then shakes his head. “That damn ‘good’.”

His hand tightens around my leg—not painfully, but firmly—and his gaze drops just before he puts the razor back to my skin. His touch stays gentle, but something beneath it changes. Something heavier. A silent promise. Or challenge. As if he’s daring me to pull away, just so he can prove he won’t let go.

It’s possessive… and Gods, I want to hate it.

“How long have you known my first name?”

The question hits me sideways. “Oh.”

He leans to rinse the half-broken razor, lingering near me, his chest far too close. Heat rolls off him in waves.

“You called me it yesterday for the first time, and then just now. Did Atlas tell you?”