Chapter 19
“It’s not my fault,” Atlas whispers.
My head stays forward, but my glare cuts sharply at him. He visibly pales, his already fair skin turning damn near ashen. Both hands rise in surrender, like someone about to face a firing squad. I’m not going to kill him, but if he so much as grazes a single strand of her hair, he’s losing fingers.
We packed up camp and headed for the nearest town—Ambarka, an old coal-mining settlement tucked against the Tusk Mountains. It’s modernized over the last thousand years, sure, but still small, still untouched by skyscrapers. A place that feels old even when it looks new.
Amarah insisted she could stay awake for the several-hour drive, and said she was fine. It took thirty minutes for her head to start swaying before she slumped right into Atlas’s side. I know she deliberately leaned away from me, but she’s now fast asleep against his chest.
I’ve never been a jealous person, but I swear I’ve contemplated throwing him into the truck bed and using the door as a pillow for her instead. I’d rather her head bang against metal than rest on him.
Actually, I’d rather her head be bobbing on—
“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters.
I tut under my breath, and just as I try to discreetly adjust myself in my pants, her legs shift from being off the bench seat to curling up onto me.
The space is too short for her to tuck them comfortably.
Before her legs can drop again, I take one and drape it over my lap, then do the same with the other.
She doesn’t stir, and instead settles instantly, stretched across both of us.
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.
“I think she’s just a victim. I don’t know if she did what they claim in Sylverton, but if you take that night out of the equation? Something terrible happened to her.”
“Hmm…”
For me, it’s not that simple. You can’t just remove the deaths of children from the equation. I’ve killed my share of people—innocent and not—and I’d never pretend to be a saint.
However, I am conflicted, because I’m starting to feel the same way he does. She saved Atlas. She saved me. Maybe it’s all calculated, maybe she’s putting on a show to keep me from snapping her neck, but her mannerisms don’t match that kind of manipulation.
“You wouldn’t have gone in willingly. Y-You would’ve…” Godsdamn when she paused… it tugged so hard on our bond. “Y-You fucking prick! Y-You can’t die! You can’t—”
Maybe I’m thinking too much on it. Her motivation for keeping me alive could just be that I’m useful—someone who can help her kill whoever she needs gone, and nothing more.
But the way she reacted felt… extreme for something that simple.
A soft sound slips from her throat, and I immediately move my hand away from her leg.
“I had to take you home…”
I want to know what she meant by that. Was that place with the wisterias “home”? There are so many questions I have, and I’m exhausted from carrying all of them with no answers.
No.
I’m sick of not knowing her.
She woke not long after Atlas and I finished talking, and silence hung between all of us until we reached Ambarka.
The hotel we found sat just before the main thoroughfare. Plain as they come. Seven stories, white exterior, and a bright green sign that read “Wick Express Hotel.” It had vacancies, so we stopped about an hour ago.
Atlas got us three rooms—two on the seventh floor and one on the second. He took the second-floor room without argument, and neither Amarah nor I questioned it.
After the two of them ate at the restaurant downstairs, they went to their rooms while I sat at the bar for an hour. I don’t know why. It’s not like drinking straight from a whiskey bottle will do anything except leave my breath reeking of it.
Didn’t stop me from trying. And by the time the last drop was gone, I was just as clear-headed—and just as irritated—as before.
I take the stairs to the seventh floor, and instead of going to my own room, I stop at Amarah’s door and knock.
Her soft steps quicken to the door, pause, and I can hear the small cover over the peep hole move. She releases a heavy sigh, and something hits the door. Whether it’s her head or her hand, I’m unsure.
“Yes, Butcher?”
“What’re you doing?”
“I just got out of the shower, you?” The ‘you’ is forced and slightly irritated sounding.
“Can I come in?”
Another worn sigh rolls from her throat. “Why?”
“Just to talk.”
“If I say no, will you go away?”
I drop my head to hide the smile that comes over me. “Nope.”
A moment passes before she sighs and the door clicks. It props open just enough for her soft, “Come in,” to filter out.
I don’t hesitate to push it open and slip inside, closing it behind me.
These rooms are basic. A small entry way with a closet on the right, and the open bathroom that still has steam coming out.
I can see the mirror, which has a blanket hanging over it.
My head tilts down, and I see my little slayer standing between me and the main area where the bed is.
A robe is all she’s wearing, along with a white towel that is wrapped around her hair.
She must’ve just got out, because her skin looks dewy.
“We could’ve talked at breakfast,” she grumbles.
I swallow and watch her arms cross over her chest, holding tight to that robe as if she’s afraid I’m going to snatch it off.
“One of the things can’t be done in public.”
I’ve been with a lot of people, but there have only been two that have ever made my dick hard when they blushed. Lucifer… and now Amarah. Her face lights up as she takes a hesitant step away from me.
Fuck, the way that shade of red brightens her dark freckles has my balls aching.
“It’s… not like that.” I step toward the bathroom and nudge the door open wider. “Your arm is still bothering you, isn’t it?”
She narrows her eyes, giving a tiny shake of her head. “No, I told you it was fine. Why?”
I’ve never been a nervous person, but fuck if I’m not right now. “Let me do something for you.”
“I… I don’t want anything from you, Butcher.”
“I know you don’t. You can hate me the entire time if it helps. But it’ll make me feel better to do something—for saving my life.”
Her gaze flicks toward the bathroom, then back to me. “Why does it have to be in the bathroom?”
“Just… go.”
She chews at the inside of her cheek, weighing the request, before finally stepping inside. I follow and place my hands gently on her arms, guiding her toward the white tub. She sits on the edge without protesting.
“I’m not taking my robe off for you.” Her voice is uneven, like she’s not fully confident she means it.
I scan the counter, grabbing a bar of soap and her razor. Pulling up my jeans to make kneeling easier, I settle on the floor in front of her.
“Uh…”
“I’ve shaved myself for years, Amarah.” I tilt my head up, offering a small, confident smile. “It’s not a big deal. And I know my way around legs. I’m assuming you’re struggling to do it yourself—”
“You assume wrong…”
“—so I’ll help. Now, foot up. I’ll ask my questions to distract you.”
Her knees clamp together, knuckles whitening as she grips the robe tight enough to crinkle the fabric.
“It’s not essential,” she mutters. “Does my hair bother you?”
“It’s your body, and nothing about it concerns me.” Gods, I wish that were true. “You bought the razors but haven’t used them, or you tried and couldn’t. Which means it matters to you. Will you let me help, or not? We can make this a one-time thing.”
“Do I even want to know how you know I’ve not used them…” She trails off.
We hold each other’s stare for several of her steady heartbeats. It’s only when her foot grazes my knee that I break and look down. For someone who walks around barefoot almost everywhere, her feet are fucking perfect. Each toe proportioned just right—
And what the Beyond is wrong with me for noticing that?
She drags the robe up to her knees and quickly tucks the fabric between her thighs before spreading her legs just enough to get comfortable on the edge of the tub.
I reach over and turn on the faucet. The water’s still warm from her shower. Scooping some into my palm, I smooth it over her leg from the knee down, then glide the bar of soap along her skin until it’s slick and ready.
“What do you want to talk about?” she asks.
Only once I set the razor to her skin do I answer.
“You told me you had to take me home,” I murmur. “I want to know what that meant. I want to understand where you took me.”