Chapter 22

Iget up, drenched in sweat. My body aches, and I groan as I flex my arms.

What a strange dream.

Even stranger is the fact that the pain is located in similar places to where I was injured or exerted myself in that dream.

My back and torso hurt from being wrenched from the car. My arms from punching too many disgusting mummies. And my throat…

I frown.

My throat would be hurting from the cold as I kept breathing harshly while pushing myself past my limits.

Of course that would be the case if my dream was not a dream. But it was a dream, no?

I immediately glance over to my right.

The spot where Minnie slept is empty.

Fuck.

If there’s any chance the dream was real and she thinks to disappear and leave me alone, then she’s sorely mistaken. I jump out of bed and run out of the room.

I don’t even bother to shower or change my sweaty clothes.

All that matters is to make sure that Minnie hasn’t left me.

Because how dare she?

I saved her and this is how she repays me? Not even a kiss?

As soon as I reach the bottom of the stairs, a delicious smell assails my nostrils.

I follow the trail that leads to the kitchen. Minnie is in her maid uniform, her expression tense and focused as she tends to the pot on the stove.

“There you are,” she says brightly as she gives me a wide smile. “How did you sleep? Any pain? You need to eat so you can take your meds.”

I stare at her. “What are you?”

She blinks. “W-what am I? What do you mean by that, Marlowe?” she asks in a sweet voice.

“You’re not human. So what are you?”

“Marlowe, are you all right? Do you have a fever?” She takes a step forward to touch my forehead, but I push her hand aside.

I narrow my eyes at her.

“You’re a witch, aren’t you?”

“That again?” She frowns.

“I remember,” I tell her, watching her reaction closely.

She doesn’t even blink. “What do you mean?”

“The car accident. We didn’t hit an animal. It was some kind of dried-up mummies that were coming after you.”

She blinks in confusion.

Her expression seems genuine, and for a moment, I fear I might be going off the rails.

But then I recall the list of injuries I sustained that match what happened in my dream. It couldn’t have been my imagination, no matter how fucked up that might be. For one, I have no frame of reference for those creatures, not even with my addiction to Supernatural. Then there’s everything else odd about her that cannot be logically explained—and oh, I’ve tried.

I’m not so obtuse as to believe that science is the only answer. And though I’d classify myself as more of a skeptic, I can no longer deny what’s in front of me.

Something is seriously wrong with Minnie.

And I’ve spent too much time denying it. It’s time to face it head-on and get to the root of this mystery.

“Marlowe, I think you’re confused. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know perfectly well,” I accuse. “You said it yourself. You’re not human. So you’re a witch, aren’t you?”

“I never said anything like that.” She continues to deny it, and to my dismay, I find myself wavering. Her expression is convincing.

But I’m not going crazy. I know I’m not.

She releases a deep sigh.

“That never happened. You must have hurt your head worse than I thought. We should go back to the hospital to get you checked again,” she mentions, taking her apron off.

“I’m fine, Minnie. Nothing is wrong with me except some soreness in my arms and ribs. My head is fine.”

“But you’re spouting nonsense, Marlowe!”

I raise a brow at her. “Am I?”

She shakes her head at me.

“I can’t put up with you like this. There’s hot food on the stove. Help yourself to it,” she mumbles as she moves to leave.

“I haven’t finished talking,” I grit out, my voice harsher than before.

She stops in her tracks, her back to me.

“But I did.”

Before she can leave, I grab her arm and push her against the wall, trapping her with my body.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you are.”

Her eyes flash at me.

“If you’re so sure I’m a witch, aren’t you afraid I’ll put a hex on you?” She smirks.

“I think you’ve already done that.”

She raises her eyebrow at me. “I have?”

“I know you put a spell on me,” I tell her confidently. “Now I just have to prove it.”

“And what spell would that be?”

“You know fully well what you’ve done. You’ve bewitched me just as you’ve done to all the men who ever laid eyes on you.”

“I seem to remember you weren’t very bewitched when you laid eyes on me,” she mutters drily. “Didn’t you want to kill me?”

“That in itself suggests you bewitched me. How else would I otherwise deviate from my normal M.O.?”

“You’re mad.” She laughs.

“That’s the issue, Minnie. I’m mad for you. And it’s unnatural.”

She blinks, taken aback. “You’re mad…for me?”

“I’m disgustingly, disturbingly mad for you, to the point that I’ve started questioning my own fucking sanity,” I grit out.

Biting her lip, she regards me with a curious expression on her face.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Get me so fucking obsessed with you I cannot function anymore.”

“Marlowe—”

“I was right from the beginning. You wanted my ring on your finger, and you cast a spell to get it.”

“M—”

“Now that you got me panting after you like a dog in heat, you’re withholding everything from me until I marry you. How Boleynian of you, Minnie. Classic strategy,” I add wryly. “What do you want? My money? My family name? My?—”

“You. I want you.”

That stops my tirade. I swallow, suddenly overcome by a wave of emotions I cannot recognize. Heat climbs up my neck and I avert my gaze.

“Well, congratulations. Your spell worked. You’ll have your ring and your marriage,” I say uncomfortably.

She snorts.

“Thank you, Marlowe. That sounds like the most romantic proposal a girl can get.”

I turn sharply to her.

“You wanted a ring, you’ll have a ring,” I tell her. “We’re going shopping at the end of the week.”

That surprises her. She stares at me for a few long seconds before she clears her throat.

“You still want to bond with me even though I might have put a spell on you?” she asks uncertainly.

I glare at her. That’s as much of an admission as I’m going to get, isn’t it?

“I want to fuck you, Minnie. If a marriage certificate is what you need to put out, I’ll give it to you.”

“You’re crass.” Her nostrils flare.

“I’m honest. I want to fuck you,” I murmur as I let my fingers trace the contour of her waist until I reach the curve of her hip. Spreading my palm over her ass, I pull her closer to me so she can feel what she does to me. She’s turned me into a fool ruled by his baser needs, and she needs to take responsibility for it—spell or no spell.

“I want to have you on my bed. Naked. Although…” I pause, letting my gaze roam over her glorious body. “A bed isn’t that necessary.”

She gulps down.

“I want to fuck you long and hard to make up for all the restless nights I spent going mad over you but with no relief in sight.”

“T-that sounds like a y-you problem,” she whispers, her tongue peeking out to wet her lips.

“And when you’re my wife, it will be your problem, Minnie.” I chuckle.

She blushes furiously and tries to push me away, turning her head so she looks anywhere but at me.

“I think you’re still confused from your injuries,” she mumbles. “I need to go…”

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth, Minnie.”

“What you’re saying is absurd, Marlowe. And your language is so sordid and?—”

“You think fucking is sordid?” I raise a brow.

“I mean… The word f-f-fuck is sordid,” she murmurs in a barely audible voice.

“Ah, Minnie. I’ll enjoy fucking that coyness out of you.”

“Please stop saying f-f-uck…” she whispers, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Why? It’s what married people do. And you want to marry me, don’t you?” I ask in a smooth voice. “That’s why you bewitched me. Because you want me, don’t you, Minnie?”

“Yes, but…”

Aha, there it is. I smile to myself.

“But?”

“I should go. You’re unwell and this is quite inappropriate and…”

“Why is this inappropriate, Minnie, when fucking is all we’ll be doing? Morning, noon, afternoon, evening, night… Maybe a few times in between,” I muse aloud.

“T-that many times?” she stammers, her eyes growing wide with shock. “Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried it.” I shrug. “But I’m looking forward to.” I wink at her.

She reddens even more, so much so, she resembles a cute little tomato that I wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of.

“You’re trying to scandalize me.”

“If you think this is scandalous, my little heathen, wait until you’re mine,” I murmur seductively. “I have so many plans for you.” Leaning in, I whisper, “And they all involve a variation of the word fuck.”

She sputters.

“Marlowe!” she cries out. “I… I need to go. Please let me go,” she says and renews her efforts to evade me.

I smile at her.

“Why should I?” I raise a brow. “I still have not extracted a confession out of you.”

She blinks repeatedly, her eyes roaming around to find an exit. When she realizes she cannot escape, she comes up with the most outrageous excuse.

“I… I haven’t washed today!” she suddenly says. “I’m veryyy smelly, Marlowe. I wouldn’t want to offend your sensitive nose with my stench.”

The little heathen… My lips curl up at her measly attempt to escape.

Leaning in, I touch the tip of my nose to the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent.

“I like your smell. A hint of spice. A hint of flowers,” I drawl. “Soon, there will be a hint of me, too. Right here,” I whisper as I place my finger atop her pulse point. “And here…” I continue, trailing up her neck until I skim the surface of her lips. “You’ll be smelling of me everywhere, Minnie.”

“I…” She trails off as she panics. “I ate garlic,” she bursts out. Her hands cup my cheeks as she brings me to the same level as her face. Opening her mouth, she blows rancid air toward me.

I immediately wince and take a step back.

“Good grief, what’s that odious stench?” I curse as I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my nose.

That’s not even garlic. It’s something so putrid I get full-body shivers from it.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaks as she dashes up the stairs.

I’m left gasping for air as I watch her retreating form, yet something solidifies in my mind.

Her breath didn’t smell before. I’m certain of it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been fantasizing about devouring her lips the entire time we’ve been carrying this conversation. I was literally salivating for a small taste.

But that only proves my point. She must have done it on purpose to end this conversation.

There’s something unnatural about Minnie. And I aim to find out exactly what.

A few hours later,and instead of working, I find myself going down a rabbit hole investigating witchcraft. The historical documentation goes back centuries, but I don’t have time for that.

I need something more recent. Something I can use to prove with certainty that Minnie is a witch.

There are countless pages for covens. Apparently, they still have those. They’re public, too.

Of course the main issue is that these are only wannabe witches who think they have powers.

I want the real deal, not some delusional people chanting hocus-pocus.

These websites even have membership sign-ups for a monthly fee.

I scoff aloud.

Witches my ass.

I resume my search, and by some stroke of luck, I end up on a forum for witches based in the state of New York.

Although the entries are mostly about medicinal plants and incantations, there seems to be a common thread. One poster, a certain SarahJ, is the one answering all questions posed on the forum. From the replies, it appears she’s got quite the loyal following, with some referring to her as a Grand Master—whatever that may be.

Hmm.

I click on her profile and look at all the posts she’s interacted with. It takes me a few minutes to comb through the useless herbal threads to get to some more interesting bits.

There’s one post asking about divination, to which Sarah replies by giving her email address and encouraging the poster to get in contact.

I jot down the address.

I scroll more and find a different post talking about a love potion.

Aha.

I knew there must be something about Minnie’s food that makes me lose my mind. She must have put the potion inside of it, making it so damn delicious that I can’t help but consume enormous quantities of it until I’m absolutely mad for her.

The thread is talking about the different ingredients needed for a love spell, and it appears that once more, Sarah is the expert on the matter.

That settles it.

Opening my email, I type out a small inquiry, asking her if she’d be willing to meet me because I think I’m the victim of magic and I’d appreciate any help in combating it. I mention that money is not an issue.

I click send.

Then I continue to study these modern-day witches and what they claim they can do, looking for any patterns similar to Minnie.

It’s not even five minutes later that I get a reply from Sarah.

Her email is short and to the point.

She writes that magic should always be performed for good and when someone consents to it. If I have not consented to anything and I feel that I’m under attack, she’s willing to help me.

I shoot her back an email, telling her I have not consented to anything and embellish it a little by claiming I fear for my life after an eerie accident that may have had supernatural influences. I also tell her that I suspect my girlfriend is the witch who caused all of this and that I’m having an existential crisis about our relationship—dramatic, I know, but it does the job.

She replies within a few minutes, saying she’d be happy to meet with me. But for her investigation to be fruitful, she requires a personal effect of my girlfriend’s so she can try to see if there are any traces of magic. After a little back and forth, she tells me that anything Minnie has worn for a significant period of time works, or even better, if I can acquire it, a strand of her hair.

I tell her I’ll do my best to get it.

We exchange a few more emails and soon I have a location, date, and time. To my great surprise, she offers to meet me tomorrow, in the city, at noon.

I thank her and confirm the meeting before closing my computer as I contemplate how to get a strand of Minnie’s hair.

Good Lord, look at me now. A few months ago, I would have gone to my grave swearing up and down that witchcraft is not real; that we live in an age of scientific advancements not one of superstitions. Even with my slight addiction to Supernatural—which I’ve barely been able to watch because my thoughts have been too wrapped up in Minnie—I would have never imagined I’d be in my current position.

My mind is clouded with doubt and confusion, to the point where I don’t know what reality is anymore.

Of course I’m not about to blindly believe this Sarah lady, since she might very well be a crook, too. But I’ll reserve my judgments until I meet her tomorrow.

Now onto getting that strand of hair.

Getting up, I go and take a shower. I put on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and head downstairs.

It’s almost five in the afternoon, which means Minnie should have prepared dinner already.

As I head down the stairs, I’m surprised to see that my pain has greatly subsided. In fact, compared to the soreness in my throat when I first woke up in the hospital, now I barely feel anything.

I probe at my ribs. They’re tender but not nearly as painful. My muscles too are no longer as sore and I can move my arms with ease.

Odd.

I reach the kitchen, and Minnie is not there.

Nor is my dinner.

“Minnie!” I bellow. It doesn’t matter that I’m about to consume again something that’s likely contaminated with witchcraft. At this point, I’m so addicted to her food, it’s pure blasphemy to miss a meal. Even stranger is the fact that she’s not in the kitchen when she’s always there at this time.

Sure, she might still be peeved with me. But that’s almost at the back of my mind.

My intrusive thoughts tell me she might be sick. She might be experiencing side effects from the accident—well, accident is a misnomer seeing that we both got injured fighting off those sentinels.

I pivot, ready to go to her room when a sudden thought stops me.

She had a bandage around her head yesterday.

It was nowhere to be seen today, nor did she display any visible injuries.

I frown. Why didn’t I think about this earlier?

Because you were too damn focused on resisting her siren’s song to think of anything else.

Alas, not for the first time, I do seem to be rather scatterbrained and weak-willed whenever I’m in her presence. And she knows it, too, because she’s always taking advantage of it.

Determined to get to the bottom of this, I stride toward her room.

“Minnie!” I call out again.

Before I reach her room, she opens the door and comes out, her arms crossed over her chest, her lips flattened in disapproval. She’s changed out of her maid uniform and she’s now wearing a pair of jeans that fit snugly over her hips—maddeningly so, might I add—and a white sweater.

“Why are you yelling?” she asks me with a pointed look.

“You weren’t in the kitchen.”

“Am I supposed to always be in the kitchen?”

I frown at her displeased tone.

“Well, yes. It’s your job.”

Her nostrils flare as she takes a step toward me.

“Is that all I’m good for? Cooking? Cleaning?”

I blink, the vehemence in her voice taking me aback.

“Well, you are my maid,” I reply, scratching the back of my head.

She stomps her foot loudly as she releases an aggravated humph.

“Marlowe! Why do you even want to bond with me if all I’m good for is being your maid?”

“That’s not what I said.” I put a hand up.

“You just said I’m your maid so it’s my job to clean and cook.”

“Exactly. When we marry, you’ll be my wife. Of course it will still be your job to cook. I’ll take over the cleaning since I’m much better at that. But you’ll have other duties too.”

“Like what?” She raises a brow.

“Like warming my bed.” I give her one of my charming smiles.

It doesn’t do the job.

She glares at me.

“So cooking and warming your bed. That’s all?”

I take a moment to reply as I think about what the best course of action is. Clearly, she’s not satisfied with my answers so far, and the last thing I want to do is piss her off.

I need a strand of hair from her.

I’m also quite hungry. And if she’s mad at me, she won’t make me anything to eat.

“Well…” I start, clearing my throat.

“Well?” She taps her foot against the floor.

She’s wearing the platform sneakers I bought her, which make her slightly taller. But she’s still a little tidbit who’s awfully cute when angry.

“You’re highly entertaining,” I finally say. I nod to myself—yes, that’s good. “You provide me with daily amusement.”

She gawks at me.

“Am I a circus animal to provide you with daily amusement?” she asks in outrage.

“Minnie.” I sigh. “You’re misconstruing everything I’m saying.”

“Then say better things,” she cries out.

“What do you want me to say? Tell me and I’ll say it,” I add, hoping to pacify her somehow.

My stomach rumbles. I was too lost in my research that I forgot to eat. It’s been hours. And I don’t want any other food than hers. I’ve gotten too used to it, and switching to anything else will be a huge downgrade. Nah, scratch that. Eating anything other than food cooked by Minnie would be both a tragedy and a betrayal—both to my stomach and to her.

“That’s not the point, Marlowe. You have to say it because you feel it, not because I tell you to say it. Otherwise, it’s not genuine.”

My lips flatten in contemplation.

“I’m not good with words,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s that?” she asks, taking a step forward.

“I don’t know what to say because I’ve never had to say something like this before,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t know what you women like or what you want to hear.”

“The truth,” she simply states. “I want to know that you value me for more than the services I provide to you. Because anyone can do that.”

“Now wait a moment,” I interrupt her. “That’s not true. No one can cook the way you do. No one can make me smile the way you do. And certainly no one can make me overlook my duties the way you do.”

She flutters her lashes in disbelief.

“Thank you. The first two are positive. But the third… I’m not sure how it can be a good thing that I make you overlook your duties.”

“But don’t you see?” I grit out, exasperated. “I’m someone very set in my ways. I never stray from my routine. No one could make me do that—except you.”

She’s still staring at me, so I continue, trying my best to see things from my perspective.

“You’re lively and cheerful and you find joy in the smallest things, which in turn makes me find joy them, too. I’ve never had that before,” I admit. “You’re like a ray of sunshine that’s snuck through the grids of my window and I’m doing my damn hardest to trap it inside and never let it go.”

She’s quiet for moments on end as she regards me. I’m almost sweating thinking I might have said something wrong—again.

But then she speaks.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she murmurs.

My lips slowly spread into a smile.

Coming toward me, she raises herself on the tips of her toes and presses her lips against my cheek.

My heart stops in my chest.

I gulp down nervously.

Her lips linger on my cheek, and I have to fight against myself to not pull her into my arms and ravish her right then and there.

“Let’s make dinner,” she whispers as she leans back. Fuck. I’ve never in my life heard more erotic words than that.

I’m frozen on the spot, unable to find my words. But as she turns to go downstairs, I reach out and pluck a fallen strand of hair from her sweater.

She doesn’t notice it, to my great relief.

But once the smell of food infiltrates my nose, I forget about everything else.

I should have asked her about her injuries—well, nonexistent injuries. But how can I ruin this dynamic when she smiles at me and hands me my bowl of food?

And I, like the poor peasant that I am, take it with both arms, worship dripping from my gaze.

A while later, my stomach thanks me. My brain, however, keeps berating me for becoming a mindless fool around her.

Alas, I don’t think there’s any cure for that.