Chapter 20
Why did I let him in?
Why am I allowing him to… touch me?
But the real question—the one that has no reasonable answer other than I’ve finally lost my ever-loving mind is: Why do I want this?
As he slides the razor—carefully, almost gently—up my leg and stops at my knee, I swallow hard. “It’s complicated.”
He doesn’t look away from what he’s doing. The hand not holding the blade shifts between my ankle, my calf, and the back of my knee. His palm engulfs every part of me it touches, and I hate how easily my heartbeat threatens to quicken.
“Seems I attract complicated people.” He leans forward to rinse the razor under the running water, then returns to continue his slow, deliberate strokes. “Try, at least. I’m really not stupid.”
Still doubting that…
Rolling my lips together, I brace my hands on the sides of the tub and lean back slightly. “Mundanes do this thing called meditation. I assume you know what that is.”
“I was once one of them. Live among them. I’m aware. Dylox do it too, you know.”
“Yeah, but they call it something else. Focus training, or… whatever.” I take a breath. “We have something similar. It’s called the Veil of Delirium. It’s a spell.”
He shifts closer, turning my leg to reach the side. “You had time to gather ingredients for a spell?” His tone is flat, skeptical.
“Hexborn need ingredients. Yldarwrights don’t.” I keep my gaze on the wall behind him. “Vendra grants us the ability to cast without them. As long as we understand the spell’s structure, we just draw the rune in our palm and activate it.”
He pauses for half a second. “What did you write it with?”
“Dirt.” And my fucking tears, you asshole.
Gods, just remembering the dead look in his eyes terrifies me. I knew something was wrong the moment he shoved me—hard enough that I actually fell. He didn’t react when I screamed his name, Butcher.
But when I screamed Kayn…
He was gone, and whatever pull that Gravemourn had on him… it was absolute. They’re the creatures that drag souls into the Beyond, and while Death governs them, she can’t be everywhere at once to stop them.
“Alright,” he says, voice low. “So you took me into this Veil of Delirium.”
“No. That’s just the name of the spell.” My fingers curl tight against the porcelain tub. “I took you, quite literally, home. You saw where I… my family is from.”
A thoughtful hum rolls from his chest. He looks up at me, hands pausing mid-motion, and I hold my breath without meaning to. “The moon looked… strange. Where are you from?”
The moment I wet my lips, his eyes drop to them. “Not here. Not on Everhaven.”
“Where?”
“It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t matter.” I deflect with practiced ease. “Are you done with my leg?”
He drops his chin but keeps his eyes on me before inspecting his work. His hand glides from my knee down to my ankle, and Vendra save me, my chest tightens painfully.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Now the other.”
He sets my foot down gently and leans across me to gather water. Each time he moves, I catch the scent of whisky and pine—sharp, warm, and unfairly intoxicating.
As he wets my left leg and works the soap along it, he asks, “Why can’t you shave properly?”
My shoulders sag. “Next question.”
“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?”
“He did.” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “The first time we were on the phone, he said it.”
“Yet you’ve called me Butcher.”
When he finally leans back, I can breathe again and suck in a lungful of air like I’ve been drowning.
“Don’t like my name?” he muses while continuing his efforts on my leg. “Hate it?”
“Hate its owner.”
He laughs at that, low and warm. “Whatever you say, little slayer.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to ask why he insists on calling me that. It’s literal, sure—but why the little part? I’m shorter than him, yes, but nearly everyone in this realm is. He’s a walking monolith. Does he not know that?
When he starts stroking my leg the same way he did the other, he sets the broken razor aside. His hand—checking for any missed spots—glides up, stopping just… above… my knee.
My heart stutters.
“All done.”
“T-Thanks.”
He plants his palms on his thighs and stands, stepping back so I can rise. I tug the drawstring of my robe tight, ensuring every inch of me is covered.
“What’s with the blanket over the mirror?”
I’d not had to worry about seeing my reflection anywhere since we started ‘camping’. But now, the thought of the Grimhorn finding me has me constantly on edge.
I give him a stiff, fake smile. “I don’t like my reflection.”
Leading us out of the bathroom, I reach for the door handle, only for Butcher’s hand to land onto it, holding it shut. I square myself to him right as he steps into my space.
My Gods, this man doesn’t believe in personal space.
“H-Hey!”
“Amarah.”
The deep timbre of his voice vibrates under my skin, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from making a sound. “You hate having your bubble invaded. Which is exactly why I love doing it. You’ll give me anything just to get me to back off.”
His hand lifts to cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. He braces his weight on his opposite arm, leaning over me, caging me in without touching anything he doesn’t have to.
“Last question,” he murmurs, “and then I’ll leave you.”
I nod quickly.
“Why do you keep lying to me? Just tell me the truth to that one question. Consider it my parting thank-you gift.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Heat rolls through me, fierce and consuming—like he’s the flame, and I’m the match he’s striking to life.
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t know the answer.
Because I do. It won’t be what he wants to hear… but it’ll be exactly what he asked for.
No. I’m hesitating because I don’t know if I want him to stop invading my space.
This closeness… this suffocation… it doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like safety.
But the moment I sever this bond, he’ll snap back into place—rigid, distant, unmoved. He’ll remember exactly what I am. The slayer he loves to throw in my face. And I’ll be left with the bitter truth: that he stole the only bond that ever truly mattered.
“Because you cannot handle my truth, Butcher. You never will.”
His eyes darken. “You have no idea what I can handle, little slayer.”
I want him to be wrong. But he’s not. What I’ve got going on is unmanageable, and I’m not worth even trying for.
“Goodnight.” I press my palms to his chest and shove him back.
He steps away without a fight, but doesn’t look from my face as he grips the door handle. “You’re going to start telling me the truth. I’m done being nice.”
My jaw drops. Nice?
Sure, shaving my legs was… sweet. But he owed me that much for saving his damn life.