bonus epilogue MINA

Back at the House. Late August 19th.

We stumble into the main hall at three a.m. I can’t stop giggling. I’m not drunk, I just get the late night sillies sometimes. A light flicks on, and we both jump. Brian quickly hides his wedding ring under his black T-shirt. It’s on a leather cord around his neck. I was surprised when he’d insisted on rings even though we can’t wear them openly if we want to keep our union a secret. And we definitely do. The last thing Brian’s reputation needs at this house is something as prosaic as marriage.

He would never hear the end of the “Ole ball and chain” jokes. Given our recent more fluid flow of power, though, I’m quite convinced that man absolutely wants to be on my chain. At least as a part-time side gig. Why else would he be so attached to the idea of wearing a wedding ring?

Of course, I can’t wear my ring at all. My fashion choices don’t allow me the same subterfuge. I wore it only once, and now it will go in the secret drawer in the weapons room with our marriage certificate. Though Brian promises I can wear it when we travel.

“New collar?” Lindsay asks, finally looking up from a piece of paper he’s been staring at since the light flicked on. He stands across the room his arms now crossed over his chest, wearing a long navy bathrobe, playing the role of the disappointed father who has been awakened by a teenager sneaking back in after a night of partying.

I swear to fuck if he figures out our secret in the first five minutes back at the house, I’m going to be pissed. I want this one thing that is only between me and Brian.

My fingers drift over the new platinum collar around my throat. A pattern of white and black diamonds plays out like a fancy parquet floor. It was hard to let the old one go. I still have it, but Brian wanted to give me something new I could wear in public. We got it before we left Paris. No one will question the collar. At least we thought no one would.

On the inner band, “Mrs. Brian Donovan” is engraved in strong block lettering so that there can be no mistake or confusion even though no one will ever read these words but me.

“A gift to celebrate a new record number of kills?” Lindsay asks. He’s still pissed we took so much time away.

“Something like that, Doc,” Brian says. He punctuates that last word with as much violence as you can put into a single syllable.

“I’ve got a list of people who need to be taken care of immediately.”

“For fuck’s sake. Do you screen these motherfuckers at all? How many?”

“Three. They’re all at the same residence. And we need the girl returned to the house. Alive.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Well we aren’t doing it right now. It’s late.”

“They’ll be asleep. It’s a perfect time for a sneak attack.”

“No,” Brian says.

“I’ve been waiting for three weeks,” Lindsay whines, “We can’t afford to wait anymore. They could endanger the house. They could damage the merchandise…”

I give the doctor a death glare at calling the girl ‘merchandise’, and I feel a wild sort of satisfaction when he shrinks back from my judgment.

Lindsay presses on. “I tried calling you. Multiple times.”

“I changed burner phones,” Brian says.

“Yes, that was immediately apparent.”

“We done here?” He grabs our bags and heads downstairs.

“Brian,” Lindsay says. I follow both of them, rolling my wheeled luggage down the hallway.

“It’ll get done,” Brian snarls. “Leave us alone. We don’t have to stay here. We don’t need this place. You need us, not the other way around.”

For a moment I wonder where we would go and what it would be like to not have the House to return to, but I know Brian will never really leave.

This shuts Lindsay up finally. “Fine. Here’s the information for when you can squeeze dire house business into your busy schedule.”

Brian snatches the paper from his hand and heads downstairs. I glance up in time to see Shannon peering through the railing on the second floor. When she spots me, she scurries off down the hall. That’s one person who definitely would be happy if Brian and I left this place forever.

Lindsay wisely doesn’t follow us downstairs. I start unpacking while Brian runs us a hot bath.

We spend a small eternity in the oversized tub, engaging in one of many private rituals we’ve built in our time together. I face away from him and he takes his time trailing his fingers over all the old scars on my back, his mouth following behind with sweet languid kisses. I shiver as his finger spells out “Mine” as he traces the only physical scars he’s ever left on me. The only ones I like.

And then I do the same with his old scars.

One of the reasons he can wear his wedding ring under his shirt is that he never takes his shirt off in public. I’m the only one that he lets see the awful violent souvenirs left on him when he was still just a boy.

And though my clothes are more revealing, what my corsets don’t cover, my long hair does. I only share this with him.

“I can’t believe we got secret married,” he says quietly, as though the house can hear us and might go rogue and tell the others.

There’s something sweet about the way he says it, like somewhere inside him is that innocent person he once was before he went so dark and cold. We bathe each other and let the water turn cool before getting out and drying off.

Brian puts some logs in the fireplace and gets a fire started before putting the safety screen in place. I slip into bed, and he snuggles in behind me a few minutes later.

We won’t run on the treadmill tonight. We’re both too tired, and our demons only chase us when we’re wide awake.

I listen to the crackle of the fire and drift off, sleeping soundly in Brian’s arms until morning.