Chapter 28
Ihit the brakes hard. Not enough to send her flying, though, because she took her damn seatbelt off.
The second the truck stops, her door is already flung open and she’s gone. I made sure to pull onto the right-hand shoulder so my side faces the traffic, not hers.
“Amarah?!”
She’s already sprinting toward the back of the truck, rain coming down so hard it ricochets off the door straight into her seat. I’m unbuckling when I feel the back of the truck dip.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she chants.
I look over the bench seat and spot her in the bed of the truck, yanking our bags toward her like she’s trying to rescue drowning children.
Ah, shit.
By the time I’m reaching for my door, she’s already leaping down and running back to the cab, soaked through and carrying both duffle bags that are absolutely drenched. She shoves them into the footwell under the glove compartment and throws herself inside, slamming the door behind her.
When her eyes meet mine, she’s a disaster—rain-plastered white hair sticking to her cheeks and throat, sweater clinging to her like a second skin, that black skirt suctioned to her legs. Her bare toes must be freezing.
I turn the heater to max without breaking eye contact.
“You… didn’t think to get the bags?” she says, breathless.
“Honestly, no. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
She huffs, but then smiles. And that smile slowly breaks into a grin, and then into a laugh that could bring a dead man back to life. Pure magic: alive and warm and so, so unexpected.
And I would kill to hear it every day. Every second.
Even this smile—eyes squeezed shut, plump lips parted just enough to show those perfect teeth—hits me harder than it should.
My smile will never compete with hers, but I give her one anyway. When I chuckle, she lets out a long “phew” and drags her palms down her dripping cheeks.
“Gods, I’m soaked. Are there towels or napkins under the seats?”
“Sorry. They’ve got construction equipment stored under there. No room for much else. In hindsight, we probably should’ve tossed it.”
She pushes her hair back behind her ear, rainwater dripping from the ends. “Probably.”
With a sigh, she pulls off her sweater, revealing an equally drenched undershirt, then rummages through the duffle. And, surprise to absolutely no one, everything is soaked.
“Great,” she mutters.
I hum. “Here.”
Shrugging off my jean jacket, I tug my T-shirt over my head. “Take your clothes off.”
Her mouth falls open, but no words come out. Just her gaze flicking down my chest in a way she’ll absolutely deny later. I let her have her moment—her moment of weakness, as she’d call it, I’m sure—before clearing my throat.
“Close your eyes,” she demands.
“I’m not the one ogling.”
I really, truly enjoy the shade her face turns when she’s flustered. The red that brings out every one of her freckles. And even the scar crossing her nose, something she probably hates. I think it makes her face even more striking.
She goes stubbornly silent.
I roll my eyes before closing them.
Rain slams against the truck in steady sheets, each drop drumming hollowly across the roof and windshield. Beneath it, the softer sounds, wet fabric peeling away from skin, clothes dragging across the seat, filter through.
I never claimed to be a good man.
So yes, I definitely peek the moment I know her shirt is over her head.
She’s still wearing a bra—unfortunate for me—but it doesn’t hide the tattoo across her sternum and between her breasts. I saw it better in the hot spring… and was burned into my memory then.
Now it’s even harder to forget.
The tattoo is symmetrical, ornamental—an intricate lotus-like motif centered at her sternum, nestled between her breasts. Below it, chains of ink drip like beaded chandeliers, trailing down her torso and tapering right to her belly button… where her skirt annoyingly cuts off the rest.
The second her shirt comes off, I shut my eyes again and let her finish undressing without peeking.
My top is torn from my hand, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s followed immediately by her huff and an exasperated, “Ugh.”
“Can I look?”
Her movements grow more frantic—fabric rustling, a few small thumps—then she stills and lets out a resigned breath.
“Yes.”
I open my eyes then.
I’ve seen her in my shirt before, in those days after I broke her out. But this?
This is different.
The plain black fabric hangs off her frame, draping down her thighs to just above her knees. Her soaking white hair contrasts starkly against it as she sweeps it over her right shoulder and begins braiding from the nape downward, until the lengths get uneven and the braid falls apart.
I’m going to offer to cut it for her when we stop next.
Maybe she’ll even let me shave her legs again. I can see the hairs returning. The way she rubs them together and tries to tuck them out of sight makes me wonder if she cares about it, or if she just doesn’t want me looking at her skin.
She better get the fuck over it, because this is the tame version of me.
“Kayn… please stop looking at me.”
“Nah.” I shift the truck into drive. “You’ll have to gouge my eyes out, and I don’t think you want to do that while I’m driving.”
The tires splash as I get us onto the rain-slicked road.
I lean back and rest my right arm across the bench seat. My fingertips hover inches from her thigh. So close my hand practically buzzes with restraint.
It’s ridiculous how hard it is not to touch her.
A soft vibration thrums through the bond, and when I glance over, she’s staring at my hand.
“Cold?” The heater’s cranked as high as it’ll go, but the goosebumps peppering her arms say otherwise.
“Shut… up.”
“You could’ve told me to grab the bags. I would’ve gotten wet for you.”
Her legs clamp together, and she makes a little strangled sound. “Do you have no filter?”
“Not particularly. But seriously, Amarah. Are you cold?”
“I’ll warm up quickly. Don’t worry about it.”
“Alright.”
I lean over, wrap my hand around her thigh—over the shirt—and yank her.
“KAYN!”
The bench seat is slick from the rain she dragged in, so she slides easily into the middle. I let go, redirect every vent to blast heat straight at her, then loop my arm around her shoulders.
“I’m pretty hot—”
“Ugh, you’re so full of yourself!”
I have to bite back a laugh. Crashing the truck because I’m too entertained by her would be stupid right now.
She shifts, but doesn’t pull away. Instead she tucks her shoulder beneath my arm, small and tense, as her hands stay glued together in her lap. She doesn’t lean on me, but I can feel the tiniest drift—her head inching closer, like gravity’s doing the persuading.
“Better?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t be in this situation if you were a gentleman who got the bags before it rained.”
I’m not going to apologize.
Because this—her beside me, under my arm, breathing my air—is the best possible outcome.
My heart, slow and useless at one beat a minute, stutters, then picks up to one every couple of seconds.
And I don’t even bother to hide how good that feels.
“But yes…” I glance down. Her head is pointed straight ahead, stiff, pretending my arm isn’t around her. “I’m better.”
Now that I’ve got her tucked against my side, time to begin my master plan: getting to know this little slayer.
“So—”
“Why did you get a lioness on your arm?”
Of course she’d interrupt before I even get the first question out. It’s fine. She isn’t going anywhere—we’ve got several straight days for interrogation.
“Believe it or not, it’s designed after one I know personally.”
“That’s not weird.”
“Says the girl who can’t say her own name out loud.”
She lets out a tiny giggle. “Shut up… but don’t. Tell me about them.”
“Them?”
“Your tattoos.”
I shift a little so she can see my arm as much as she wants.
“I met the lioness in a forest. She had a butterfly perched on her nose like it wasn’t one twitch away from being flattened.
It’s a dedication to her. The mountains above it are for where I met Luce.
The crescent moon at the top just… fit.”
She hums softly, like she’s cataloging every detail. Then, surprising me, she grabs my wrist and flips my hand to see the back of it.
“And is this a frog skull?” she asks, squinting. “Like a—”
“It’s a demon frog skull,” I correct quickly. “And you can’t laugh if I tell you why I got it.”
“No promises.”
I groan. “I used to have a recurring dream about being chased by a demon frog—”
She snorts immediately, dissolving into a snickering laugh.
“That’s so rude. I was a kid!”
“You weren’t when you got it.”
Fair point.
“Alright, alright,” I concede with a huff. “It looks cool, though. And how many people do you know with a demon frog skull tattoo?”
Her smile says she likes it. Likes the story, likes the honesty, likes this. And Gods help me, that does something to me I’m not ready to name.
She leans into me a little more, and I can’t tell if she realizes she’s doing it but fuck me, I’m glad she does.
“I can confidently say, not many,” she murmurs. “Definitely unique.”
I adjust myself just slightly. Enough so she rests more against my right pec instead of tucked awkwardly under my arm, but not enough to scare her off. I absolutely don’t stop her fingers as they graze the top of my hand.
That touch is… dangerous.
“What about yours?” I ask. “The one on your sternum.”
I hear her swallow. “You peeked.”
“Technically, I saw it the other day. You know, when you were naked.”
Her groan of frustration is downright adorable. But I’d be a lying sack of shit if I said I didn’t want a very different kind of sound out of her.
“The top part is a rune,” she says quietly. “It weaves into a lotus flower. It’s for strength. The pieces that dangle are meant to look like a chandelier. The four small jewels—two on each side—were for my siblings. The one in the center is me. The lowest one, the one closest to my belly button.”
“You have siblings?” I keep my tone gentle because I hadn’t missed the past tense.