Chapter 10

She doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.

Even when I hand her the list of cleaning tasks, she just nods, glances at it, and then puts on her maid costume and proceeds to clean.

I can’t even find fault with her cleaning. She follows my instructions to a T, scrubbing the floors until they shine and dusting the furniture until there’s not one speck of dirt left.

Throughout the day, I try to ask her how she’s doing, but she just glares at me before resuming her cleaning duties.

I decide to get some work done while she’s busy, but I can’t seem to focus on anything. Staring blankly at my computer, I find my thoughts straying to her as I wonder what she’s up to. It takes me a few consecutive tries to get into a work mindset before I give up.

To make matters worse, I cannot even focus on a Supernatural episode—my usual pastime when I don’t work.

Instead, all I can think about is her.

I scowl at myself.

I bought her shoes and clothes and now she’s not speaking to me.

What the hell is wrong with her?

Don’t girls like those things?

She should be thanking me profusely, perhaps on her knees. Now, that wouldn’t be such a bad sight. Especially in that maid outfit of hers.

Before I can contemplate how my obsession with her is ruining my things, I click on the camera feed to see what she’s up to.

Maybe it was a premonition, but she is on her knees in the bathroom on the first floor, scrubbing the floor. She’s just started by the looks of it. There’s only one small shining patch of tile among other dirty ones. Alas, she has her work cut out for her.

Although the dress covers most of her, from the angle of the camera, I can see her slender ankles. And as I rake my gaze over her body, my eyes land on her ass.

She thrusts it backward as she swipes the cleaning rag back and forth.

A groan slips past my lips.

This is madness.

Pure and simple.

She takes a deep breath as she leans back, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Usually, that would disturb me since her hands are undoubtedly drenched in a mix of filth and detergent. Yet for some reason, there’s no revulsion.

My pulse quickens as I watch every small move she makes.

She gets to her feet and dumps the cleaning rag to the ground. Placing her hands on her hips, she looks around as she shakes her head.

She must be tired.

She’s already cleaned most of the ground floor. I know firsthand how energy-consuming that is. But she hasn’t complained once.

Hell, she didn’t need to clean everything today. But it seems to be a way to rebel against whatever I did.

And I’m still left scratching my head as to what the hell I must have done or said wrong.

She was so happy this morning when we went shopping. But after the car ride home, she suddenly did a one-eighty.

Is she mad about what I said about that soulmate of hers?

Maybe that’s it.

But the moment I think of that, my entire body tenses. Just who the hell is that wimp who would leave this poor little girl to fend for herself? She has no one in the world. Seeing how men flock to her and give her unwanted attention, she has most likely been living with danger looming over her head at all times. It’s no wonder she went to prison for assault—a well-deserved assault if I do say so myself.

It’s clear her entire life has been one struggle after another.

So where the hell is that knight in shining armor of hers? If she knows who he is, why has she not gone to him? And why the hell has he not tried to find her?

If that were me…

No. I shake my head at my own thoughts. I will not go there.

She’s not my responsibility, nor is she my concern.

But deep down you want her to be…

That’s partially correct. The only reason why I’m so interested in Minnie is because I’ve never met someone quite like her before. And she has all the makings to be the perfect hundred and fifty-eighth victim.

With one exception…

She’s never done anything truly bad in her life. Yes, she might not have anyone who would miss her. But I don’t kill innocents. And the more I learn about her, the more I see her for the pitiful creature she really is.

My lips flatten in annoyance.

This is a quandary I must solve, and soon.

I suppose I could keep her as my maid. She’s certainly not bad on the eyes in that outfit of hers. She can clean and cook, and I’ll take care of everything else.

I’ll keep her fed and clothed, and I’ll ensure she’s never in danger from creepy-ass men.

I slowly nod to myself. That’s not such a bad idea now, is it?

And to make sure she’s still of use to me, I can use her to attract my future kills—all in a safe and contained environment, of course.

Perhaps a tad different than what I initially had in mind, but she’ll still have her use.

Take that, wimpy soulmate of hers!

In the grand scheme of things, I win.

I chuckle to myself.

And if he perchance shows up, then I must, of course, get rid of him. After all, he is no innocent if he left this poor girl to suffer alone.

“Marvelous idea,” I say to myself, a satisfied smile appearing on my face.

I won’t kill her. I’ll just kill her soulmate instead.

The camera feed suddenly buzzes out, and a static appears on the screen.

I frown and try to refresh it, but it doesn’t work.

It lasts a total of ten seconds before the feed comes back on.

I blink in shock.

Minnie smiles to herself as she looks around the sparkling bathroom—the same one that was previously ninety-nine percent dirty.

What the…

I stare at my screen, unsure of what I’m seeing.

She couldn’t have cleaned everything in ten seconds. There’s absolutely no way.

Muttering a curse, I get up and go downstairs to investigate. But the moment I reach the landing of the stairs on the ground floor, a strong scent wafts toward me.

My nostrils flare.

I stomp to the kitchen, convinced she’s up to no good again.

To my surprise, however, she’s not doing anything wrong.

She’s cooking.

There’s a big pot on the stove, and she sways from side to side in that alluring maid costume of hers as she stirs the food.

When the hell did she have time to cook?

It must have been only a couple of minutes since I saw her finish with the bathroom.

“Minnie,” I bark out.

Perhaps she had the pot on the stove while she was cleaning? But that doesn’t explain her swift transformation of the bathroom. And unless I’m mad, and frankly, I don’t think I am, something is wrong here.

She startles, turning to look at me. Her eyes widen and she swallows. Then she plasters a fake smile on her face.

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking.” She shrugs. “It’s in my responsibility sheet.”

I narrow my eyes at her.

Her tone is flippant, as is her answer, and her body language tells me she wants me nowhere near her.

I scowl.

“How did you finish cleaning so quickly?” I ask.

“How do you know I finished?” she counters.

“I checked,” I lie automatically.

Her tongue clicks against her teeth.

“It’s to your liking, I assume?” She raises a brow as she leans back against the kitchen counter.

Who is this Minnie and what did she do with my sweet little heathen?

Well, not mine. She’s not mine.

But she is, isn’t she?

She’s of my home. That’s different.

No, it’s not. You’re losing it, Marlowe.

The sound of her mocking laughter brings me back to the present.

“You have done fine.” I clear my throat and look around. “What are you cooking?”

“Beef stew,” she answers curtly before she goes back to stirring in her pot and ignoring me.

The smell is stronger now, and I instinctively lick my lips.

I have yet to taste her cooking, but based on that scent, I have to say I’m looking forward to it.

Grabbing two plates and spoons, I place them at the table and take a seat.

She half-turns, giving me the side-eye.

“You’ve been ignoring me the entire day,” I state. “Why?”

She doesn’t reply. She turns off the stove, and putting on gloves, she brings the pot to the table. She pours some stew in her plate but pretends she doesn’t see my own.

Ah, petty, I see.

“Minnie, I’m talking to you,” I say again as I add some stew to my plate.

Despite our feud—that I still don’t know the root of—the food smells mouthwatering.

“And I don’t want to talk to you.” She releases a loud huff.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a hypocrite.” She glares at me. “And a h-hoe.”

“W-what? A hoe?” I repeat, unsure I heard her right.

“Yes. You’re a hoe. You accused me of being a prostitute, but you’re the true hoe.”

I blink.

That’s why she was so put off? Because of the answer I gave her to the body count question?

But she’s not done with her rebuke. Placing her hands on the table, she looks me dead in the eye as she continues.

“How does someone even get to one hundred and fifty-seven bodies? When did that happen? Where do you find them? Better yet, who were they? Tell me!”

My lips twitch.

“If you started at eighteen, that would be…” She pauses as she screws her face in concentration. She uses her fingers to do the math, and soon she reaches a conclusion. “Almost sixteen a year. How?”

“Seventeen,” I correct. “I started at seventeen.” Well, technically, a bit younger, but I don’t count that.

Her mouth hangs open in shock.

“Seventeen?” she repeats, dumbfounded. “Who was it?”

I lean back and shrug.

“A neighbor.”

A fucking asshole who deserved what was coming to him.

She blinks rapidly. Her breathing accelerates and as she picks up the spoon, I fear she may break it in two.

For some reason, this amuses me. Not her anger in particular. But the object of her anger. Don’t tell me she’s…jealous?

“Marlowe!” she cries in a scandalized tone.

“Jealous?” I wiggle my brows in question.

“Y-you…” Her lips are set in a mutinous line. She glares at me some more before she suddenly takes her bowl of stew and turns her back to me.

I shake my head at her behavior. As much as it annoys me that I don’t understand where this is coming from, it’s rather amusing. And if it is jealousy, then what about that soulmate of hers? Has she forgotten about him already?

“You’re being absurd, Minnie. Why are you fixated on my body count? It’s not as if it has any effect on you.”

At this point, I’ve already started the game, so I can’t back out and tell her it was all a lie—a misunderstanding, rather. Then, she’d want to know the truth, and while she might agree to keep staying with me while thinking I’m a hoe, I doubt she’d have the same opinion if she knew I’m a killer.

She might not have reacted that badly to me beating the creep from the diner to a pulp, but he’d tried to hurt her. It’s different. I don’t think she’d offer me the same grace if she saw my jar collection containing the ashes of my victims in the basement.

She glances at me. Barely.

“I don’t agree with your morals.” She shakes her head. This time, however, her expression morphs from one of anger to one of disappointment. And somehow that hits the mark because my chest tightens with discomfort.

“It’s the twenty-first century, pet. Welcome to modernity.” I wink at her in an attempt to make light of the situation.

She scrunches her nose in disgust.

“Convenient excuse.” She bristles. “You said you’ve never been in love. So why?”

I raise a brow at her question.

“If you didn’t care about them, then why would you…” She clamps her mouth shut, tipping her chin down and glaring at me aggressively.

“Right. I forgot you’re waiting for that soulmate of yours.”

She grinds her teeth at the mention. “Maybe I should forget about him, too, and get my body count up. Twenty-first century, right?” She sneers. “It wouldn’t be much trouble to find volunteers anyway.”

The words are barely out of her mouth and I’m out of my seat, planting myself in front of her and caging her with my arms.

“I’d like to see you try,” I grit out.

She slowly raises her eyes to look at me, and the sheer sadness I note in them strikes me. There’s moisture on her lashes as if she’s one moment away from crying.

“Remember my conditions, pet. There will be no nudity in front of any man.”

She tilts her head to the side.

“I’m sure it can be managed without nudity, no? I’ve seen people in parking lots, you know. They didn’t have to take their clothes off to get down to work.”

Business. I’m pretty sure she means to get down to business. But the moment is too tense for me to correct her, especially since she looks as if she’s on the verge of jumping on me—literally.

The little feral cat. Somehow, I’d like to see her try that.

“Well, then I’m adding another condition to our agreement. You will not see or entertain any men. You will not go out without me, and you’ll keep your face covered at all times when we’re in public so you don’t attract any attention.”

She scoffs.

“You and your conditions. What is it to you if I do any of that? Just like I shouldn’t care about your past, you shouldn’t care about what I do.”

“Don’t test me, Minnie,” I say in a low voice.

“Or what?” She lifts a brow just as she rises from her chair. She brings her face close to mine, so close, I can feel that sweet scent of hers drift toward my nostrils again.

“Or you will not like the consequences. You live here now.”

“Your house, your rules, no?” She laughs.

“Precisely. And I will not let you bring any disease in here,” I find myself saying. The most ludicrous thing. But it’s better than acknowledging the real reason why I don’t want her anywhere near another man.

“You’re one to talk? How can I be sure you don’t have any disease from all those one hundred and fifty-seven bodies?”

I smirk.

“I always wear protective gear.”

After all, I never interact with bodily fluids.

I like to stare at blood. I don’t like to feel it staining my skin.

Too sticky. Too…personal.

“I can wear that too,” she counters.

Over my dead body.

“You will not.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Oh, trust me. I can.”

“I’d like to see you try. What are you going to do? Lock me in here? Chain me in your basement somewhere?”

She’s not too far off from the truth. A dry laugh slips past my lips.

“Don’t tempt me, pet.”

“What if that’s what I want to do, Marlowe?” she asks sweetly.

“What? Tempt me?”

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, getting closer. So close, her lips skim the surface of my cheek.

A shudder goes down my back. Her lips are soft. Hot. So fucking hot.

And once more, I find myself freezing and in need of warmth.

“What do you think you’re doing, Minnie?” I rasp.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Marlowe? Tempting you,” she whispers, blowing hot air on my cheek.

My body tenses. My brain malfunctions.

“It won’t work,” I reply. My voice is rough and I feel my control slipping.

Years of mental training going down the drain. Just like that.

She leans back, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

“Oh, I think it did.” She chuckles as she nods to my body.

I frown.

But then it dawns on me what she means.

She’s pointing to my tented pants.

Because I’m hard. For her.

Fucking hell!

I mutter a string of curses and wrench myself from her side.

She smiles triumphantly, but there’s still a tinge of sadness in her features. One I cannot explain.

Clearing my throat, I take a seat once more at the table and decide to focus on the food. Perhaps that will alleviate the discomfort in my pants—something I’ve never had to worry about before.

The stew has gone cold by now, but the smell is not any less inviting.

I dip my spoon in the stew and bring the food to my lips.

I freeze.

What the fuck…

I barely swallow before I take another spoonful, then another, until I’m scraping the bottom of the bowl.

It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life. Rich with flavor and spices, the sauce is absolute perfection. Couple it with the tender beef and I’m already salivating for seconds.

This is not normal.

I don’t do seconds.

I’m very disciplined in my eating. Three meals a day, two snacks. Every meal is portioned to perfection to contain the right amount of nutrients.

I don’t do excess.

But it appears this is another personal rule I’m breaking because of her since I don’t even bother with the bowl anymore. I grab the entire pot and place it in front of me, ready to dig in.

“You approve of my cooking?” she asks at last.

I raise my eyes. For a moment, I forgot she was there. So absorbed I was in that stew that I lost track of everything around me.

I hum in approval.

“This wasn’t one of my approved recipes,” I note, though I’m not mad in the least.

“No. It’s my own recipe,” she mentions.

“It’s good.” No, it’s very good. Bordering on orgasmic.

Fuck.

I’ve never thought of food in those terms before. In fact, I thought it was an idiotic phrase coined by horny people who wanted to make everything in their lives about sex.

But now I get it.

“What did you put in it? It’s very…unique.”

She smiles.

“It’s a secret.”

“No, seriously. How did you make it so good?” I ask in between mouthfuls. I can’t seem to stop myself.

“What if I told you”—she places her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her palms as she looks at me—“that I added magic inside?”

I snort. “Magic? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” I tell her resolutely.

“Are you sure about that, Marlowe?”

“You don’t want to tell me? Fine. Got it.” I roll my eyes at her.

“Why are you so skeptical? Magic is everywhere,” she murmurs.

“I’m not skeptical. I’m a realist. There’s no such thing as magic except in fiction.”

She chuckles.

“Or maybe you’re too blind to see it.”

I place down my spoon. The pot is now empty.

I take a deep breath and look her in the eye.

“If there were magic in this world, why would there be people suffering everywhere? Why would the people who inflict that suffering upon them walk freely with no punishment? If there were magic out there…”

Her eyes widen, her lips slowly parting in surprise.

“If there were any magic in this world, then why is it so fucked up?”