Chapter 5

We reach my house around nine in the evening.

Only two hours left until my scheduled bedtime.

Two hours in which I’m unlikely to enjoy any Supernatural episodes.

My lips flatten in disappointment.

As the car comes to a stop, I glance at my little passenger.

Her eyes are wide and full of curiosity as she glances around. Surprisingly, she doesn’t appear afraid.

Today, she was the victim of two assaults, yet she willingly agreed to come home with a stranger.

That’s…confusing.

Does she have no self-preservation at all?

Does she not realize that the world is not a kind place for women?

By her own admission, she’s been through some rough situations in the past—things that should have hardened her toward the world and made her distrustful of everything and everyone.

But as she looks at me, there’s none of that. There’s only an odd, unwavering trust, as if she were ready to jump off the top of a building if I said so—though I will not.

Maybe. I’ve yet to decide what I’m going to do with her.

She claims she’s been to prison. But there’s a softness in her features that belies that. There’s an innocence to her that’s almost intoxicating, and perhaps what makes her such a magnet for predators.

On any other day, I would have said I was immune to it.

Now? I’m not so sure.

“This is your house?” she asks in that soft voice of hers.

I grunt.

“Come,” I say, opening the door. She follows behind me as we head toward the entrance to the house.

“Wow,” she whispers as she stops in the middle of the foyer. “Is this a castle?”

“Mansion,” I correct.

“Victorian?”

“How did you know?” My brows go up in surprise.

“I have a thing for old things.” She gives me a shy smile.

My features harden—or, rather, I force them to do so.

Do not react, Marlowe. Do not even think of it.

“Really?” I drawl.

She nods, her features suddenly animated.

“How so?” I surprise myself by asking. I shouldn’t want to know things about her, yet curiosity gets the best of me.

Her lips tremble.

“Old houses are generally abandoned.” She gives me a tremulous smile.

I stare at her. “You’ve been sleeping in abandoned houses?”

“When I could find one.” She shrugs.

I do my best not to reveal the shudder that goes down my spine as I think of the dust and dirt she must have slept in, not to mention the mold and other vermin. The more I think, the more horrified I become.

“Minnie.” I clear my throat. “When was the last time you’ve had a bath?”

She raises those big eyes of hers to look at me as she mulls over the answer.

Immediately, I regret my question.

I don’t want to know.

Knowing will just make me more anxious about the fact that I’ve had this creature in my car, wearing my coat. Fuck! She touched me with her hand.

“It’s winter. I don’t sweat that much,” she answers shyly.

Right. The answer is a long fucking time ago.

I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

She’s in my house—my sanctuary. An unwashed little heathen.

We must rectify this right away.

“Come,” I command, bypassing her to head up the stairs.

I go up exactly five steps before I realize she’s not following behind.

I half-turn and pin her with my gaze.

She’s standing behind the railing, her teeth raking over her lips as she hugs herself with her arms.

“Did you change your mind?” she asks as she slowly looks at me.

I raise a brow in question.

“About having your way with me,” she murmurs softly.

“No,” I snap.

Her eyes widen at my tone.

“First off, I’ve already told you that I have no designs on you. And second…” I pause, pursing my lips. I’m usually direct without having to mince my words. But that’s because I don’t care about people’s feelings. I don’t care whether I offend them or not. But with her… The way she’s holding herself as if seeking some defense from the world makes me hesitate.

I scowl at myself and continue, “Even if I were, I would not touch you within an inch of my life considering you don’t even know when the last time you bathed is.”

Her lips part. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” I repeat in a dry voice. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

“My… My room?” Her lashes flutter in confusion.

“Yes. You will not sleep with rats anymore. You can thank me,” I say with a nod.

Her steps drum across the polished floor as she chases up the stairs after me. Her mouth is wide open in an exuberant smile.

But then she suddenly stops when she’s a step behind me and frowns.

“But there are no rats at this time of the year,” she mumbles, almost as if disappointed. “All the ones I’ve seen were frozen to death.”

“Thank God for small miracles,” I grumble under my breath.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” She punches me lightly in the arm. “Rats have their uses, too.”

I tilt my head and watch her with an amused smirk.

“Really? Do tell me what use they have aside from being disease-infested vermin.”

New-York-sized rats in particular. They can reach the size of a fucking raccoon. Don’t tell me those things aren’t disgusting or unhygienic. They have a loose bladder, for God’s sake! If a rat makes its home somewhere, there isn’t a place it won’t urinate on.

I rake my gaze over Minnie.

No, I cannot think of rats peeing on her. That will make me physically ill.

“Well,” she starts. Her chin juts forward as she straightens her shoulders—a sign she’s about to say something that’s important to her. “They’re food for other predators. Everything has its use in nature.”

She has a point. But although I like animals, I will draw the line at those who live in their own filth.

“I may be able to appreciate their use, but that doesn’t mean I want them anywhere near me or my house.”

She sighs.

I narrow my eyes at her.

“Please tell me you didn’t eat rats to survive,” I add before I can help myself.

This is too much information that I do not need to know. So why the hell am I mentioning it?

Her lips flatten.

“You know what, don’t. Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know,” I quickly say, scrubbing a hand over my face.

Based on her expression, I’ll wager a guess that she did, and having a vocal confirmation of the fact will give me nightmares for weeks on end.

“You’re an odd man, Marlow,” she mentions with a shake of her head.

“I think you’re even odder, Minnie the dumpster diver,” I quip back.

She stares at me.

I stare at her.

It’s almost like a battle of the wills to ascertain who is the oddest among the two.

And I. Do. Not. Give. Up.

The staring contest lasts minutes on end, and just as I knew it would happen, she cracks first when a light giggle escapes her.

The tension seeps out of my body, and I reluctantly smile.

“Enough talk about rats. Let’s go.”

I continue up the stairs and she follows closely.

When we reach the second floor, I take her down the hallway to the right where the guest bedrooms are.

Yet another great thing about this house. The master bedroom is housed in the left wing with a room I converted into my office, while the other three bedrooms are in the right one. Even if by some odious chance my family found out my address and came to visit, I could dump them far away from me so they don’t disturb my carefully crafted routine.

Which, glancing at my watch and seeing that another half an hour has passed, this little heathen is about to do.

Deep breath, Marlowe. You’re just being a Good Samaritan—paying it forward and the like.

Two bedrooms are moderate in size, but the third one is almost the size of a master. It has its own private bathroom and terrace attached to it.

I stop in front of the door and unlock it. Stepping inside, I invite Minnie to do the same.

Her eyes widen in shock as she takes in the room.

I smile to myself.

These bedrooms might not be occupied, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have them fully renovated when I moved in. I don’t like things half-done.

There’s a king-sized bed in the middle of the room, with a bedside table on each side. Against the external wall, there’s a study and a chair, and next to it is the door that leads to the terrace. The bathroom, too, is fully functional, with a tub and a shower.

“I take it that you like it?”

She nods, her lips trembling.

She takes a step farther into the room as she peeks at the terrace. Then she goes to inspect the bathroom.

I lean against the door as I await her verdict.

“You will let me live here?” she asks as she slowly makes her way toward me.

“That depends.”

Wariness enters her features. “On?”

“You must abide by my rules,” I tell her.

“Oh, okay. What are those?”

“First, you’ll shower daily. Second, you will not eat any more contaminated food. Third, you will not make any noise from eleven in the evening until seven in the morning. Fourth, you will not disturb me while I’m working. Fifth, you’re allowed to wander around the house, but you’re not allowed to come to my room. Sixth?—”

“Why am I not allowed into your room?” She interrupts me.

“Because I don’t like strangers in my personal space,” I reply.

She considers my words.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No.”

“A girlfriend?”

“No.”

“A lover?”

“No.” I scowl. “What’s with these questions?”

She shrugs. “I was curious.”

“Well, you’re too curious,” I grumble.

“I would not like to step on anyone’s toes,” she adds.

“You’ll step on mine if you do any of the things above,” I counter. “I’m a very private man and I value my routine. You already are a disruption in that routine.” I pause as I look again at my watch. Ten more minutes have gone by. I should wrap this up soon so I can go take a hot bath and scrub the grime off me. The blood from that creep has dried on my skin, and just thinking about it makes me sick.

“If I’m such a disruption, then why are you helping me?” she asks in a small voice.

“Because clearly you cannot care for yourself. You need someone else to do it for you, and fortunately, you caught me in a charitable mood today, so I shall be that person for the time being,” I explain. But as the words are out of my mouth, I mentally berate myself. How the fuck did I even get in a charitable mood? I’m never charitable, at least not with people.

She gawks at me. I wait for some feminist outcry that she’s her own person and she can care for herself—even though the evidence at hand proves otherwise.

“You’re odd,” she mutters.

“So you have said.”

“And a bit of a control freak,” she adds, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips.

“Make that a whole lot of a control freak.” I chuckle. It’s not an insult. I am what I am, and I require full control over all areas of my life. Well, now hers too.

She gifts me with a full smile.

“You’re also kind. Thank you. But I cannot in good conscience live here for free.”

“May I remind you that you have no money?”

“Yes, but I could pay you in other ways?—”

“No,” I cut her off, putting my hand up. “I will not require those services from you,” I add, my face screwing in disgust.

Has she not realized it by now that I’m not interested in her physically? She must be too used to men demanding that of her that she still suspects I have ulterior motives for taking her in.

“I wasn’t offering!” she cries out, taking a step back and covering her chest with her hands. She has a scandalized look on her face that I would think to be genuine except I suspect this is exactly how she’s been living so far.

My lips tighten in a scowl. Somehow, the thought of her with some dirty bastard is unpalatable. It makes me shudder in renewed disgust, but this time it’s the type that crawls under my skin until I feel the need to scrub my skin with sharp nails to remove all traces of discomfort.

“I was thinking of something along the lines of cleaning. You like cleanliness, don’t you? I can do it for you,” she adds eagerly.

I take a moment to consider her proposition.

I don’t have a maid or a cleaner. I never had. The thought of another being in my house is too horrifying for me to allow that. But that also means I’ve had to make sure my cleanliness obsession doesn’t take over my life, which is why I spend far too much time scrubbing this place around. Perhaps a helping hand would not be so bad. She’s already going to be here.

I nod to myself. Yes, that seems like a sensible idea. However, I must first determine how she cleans.

“You may clean the common areas and the kitchen. That’s the whole of the first floor,” I eventually reply.

Her eyes shine with optimism.

“However…” I put a finger up. “I’ll need to assess your skills first. You may start tomorrow.”

“Okay. I can do that.” She nods, offering me a bright smile.

“Can you cook?”

She blinks and licks her lips. “Of course I can cook.”

I nod. “Good. Then I shall make you in charge of cooking, too. I’m very specific about what I eat and when. I’ll provide you with a schedule sheet tomorrow.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” she exclaims effusively. Out of nowhere, she launches herself at me to give me a hug.

My eyes widen in horror as I hold myself still.

She’s dirty. She hasn’t bathed in days, mayhap more. She ate things from the floor.

Using only my thumbs and forefingers, I grab her shoulders and push her back.

“I don’t like being touched,” I grind out.

“Oh,” she whispers, confused.

“There’s also the matter of your…condition,” I say as I nod at her body.

“My condition?” She frowns.

It would be uncouth of me to state the obvious, but it seems she soon understands my silence.

“But you’re dirty too. You’re covered in blood!” she points out.

My lips flatten.

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t erase the fact that you’ve been living on the streets, and you…” I trail off, cursing under my breath.

“And me?”

“I have another stipulation,” I suddenly add.

Her brows pinch together.

“You’ll also need to get a medical exam done to make sure you don’t carry any disease.”

“W-what? Disease?” she stammers, dumbfounded.

I take a step back—just in case.

“You could have contracted anything from the streets.”

“But—”

“And there’s also the matter of your muddy past. Since we’ll be sharing a space—to an extent—I want to make sure you’re disease-free. That will put my mind more at ease, since even a small contact with your bodily fluids could prove fatal—though don’t get me wrong, I don’t plan to be anywhere near your body fluids. This is just a safety measure,” I explain.

“What kind of diseases do you think I have?” she asks, her voice going down an octave. Her hands are curled into fists by her sides, and her entire body is full of tension.

I shrug.

“Venereal diseases and any other infections that can be passed on.”

“Venereal? What do you mean?” She frowns, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

“What do you think it means?” I ask drily as I let my gaze roam over her body.

“Y-you…” She blinks rapidly. “Did you just imply that…” She swallows audibly. “How dare you?” she cries out before she comes charging at me, all five feet of her. She jabs her finger into my chest, backing me into the hallway.

Damn, this tiny creature has some strength.

“Don’t take it personally, pet,” I say, brushing her finger aside, then wiping my hand on my pants. “I will not hold it against you if you do, but then we’ll have to reassess this situation.”

“I don’t have any disease,” she continues, her tone that of outrage. Of course it is. I must have offended her feminine sensibilities. But it’s better to be blunt upfront than encounter issues later on.

“That will be for the doctor to determine.” I give her a fake smile.

“But… But…”

I’m already down to one hour before my scheduled time to sleep. I should wrap this up quickly and be on my way.

“Venereal diseases means that…” she stammers.

“They’re transmitted through sexual activities. Yes,” I add with a roll of my eyes.

“Is that what you meant by my murky past?” Her eyes flare up in shock.

I merely smile.

“Do you think I’m some kind of trollop? I already told you I’m not a prostitute!”

“And that’s what a prostitute might say,” I remind her calmly. “But prostitution is not the only way you could have acquired a disease. After all, you don’t have to always be paid for it,” I continue.

Why the hell did I even bring this up? Why am I even continuing arguing about it when I should find a way to extricate myself from this situation faster? Yet I’m oddly interested in this subject—in her and her past. Why? I cannot say. But I find myself more and more curious with each word we exchange.

She must have a past. Everyone does—well, I suppose I may be one of the odd exceptions. But the mere thought that some dirty-ass man would have put his slimy hands on her rattles me—to an uncomfortable degree.

“You…” Her body shakes with anger. “Damn you! I’ve never engaged in s-s-sexual activities with anyone else! So take your prejudices about me and stick them somewhere,” she yells before she does something unexpected. She stomps hard on my foot with her heel before she turns and leaves.

I stare at her in shock. I barely have time to process what she just said because this damn little heathen is leaving.

She’s fucking leaving.

“Minnie!” I call out and chase after her when I see she’s already on the first floor and heading for the exit.

She’s fast, I’ll give her that. For such a little thing, she’s quite nimble.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I demand as I reach her and grab her by the arm.

She turns those big eyes toward me and they’re full of animosity. Her lips are pressed tightly together in annoyance and I wonder if she’ll hit me.

Not that I don’t deserve it. I probably do.

Hell, I almost want her to hit me.

“I’ll find another old house to sleep in for the night,” she says as she pushes her chin up.

“No. You will not. You’ll stay here.”

“Why? So you can insult me more? I’ve already told you I’m not a prostitute, but you’re stuck on this idea that I must be some dirty and disease-infested person…”

She’s not wrong there, but I will not confirm it to her face—again.

“Why would you even offer me a place to stay if you’re going to be such an asshole?”

“Being an asshole is a specialty of mine,” I say and flash her a smile.

It doesn’t seem to move her.

A part of my brain tells me that perhaps this is for the better, that I should let her leave and wash my hands clean of her. After all, she’s nothing but a troublesome little thing that I have neither the time nor the disposition for. I offered, so I did my duty. If she refuses, then it’s on her.

Yet I can’t bring myself to do that.

It would be the easy way out.

But the more I look at her, the more I don’t want to ever imagine her sleeping in a cold, dirty-ass place or eating food from a dumpster.

It’s for your own peace of mind, Marlowe.

That’s right. If she’s here, living comfortably and eating clean, healthy food, then I will not have to obsess over her situation for days, maybe weeks—perhaps months—to come.

This is the smart choice.

“I’m not the most pleasant individual to be around. I admit,” I reluctantly say. “And I apologize if I offended you in any way.”

There it is. It wasn’t so hard. I can’t remember the last time I apologized to someone. Yet here I am, saying those words to someone I’ve just met—someone to whom I’m not indebted in any way.

Odd. But it’s another odd thing in a string of odd occurrences. As long as I can prevent spiraling down into another one of my episodes, I’ll have to make this concession.

She narrows her eyes at me.

“Do you mean it?”

I smile. But before I can say anything else, she continues.

“I suppose I overreacted,” she says in a low voice. “But I didn’t like your insinuations.”

“Noted. I will not make similar assumptions in the future.”

She nods. “You’re very concerned with cleanliness, are you not?”

“I am.”

“I was acting like a brat, wasn’t I?” She sighs. “You opened your home to me and offered me a place to sleep and here I am, being ungrateful. I’m sorry.”

I blink.

That’s it? She is the one apologizing now?

“I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me.” She smiles. “And I’ll do my best to conform to all your stipulations.”

“Good. Shall we head back up then?”

She wets her lips as she regards me for a moment. There’s something in her gaze, something I cannot put my finger on.

“Okay.”

We go up the stairs and I drop her at her door.

“There’s unlimited hot water. Take advantage of it,” I mention with a wink. There, I managed to find a more palatable way of telling her she needs to wash—for a long time, too.

I give myself a metaphorical pat on the back.

Minnie giggles and nods before she closes the door.

Once in my own wing of the house, I enter my room and discard my dirty clothes, then jump straight into the shower.

I spend thirty minutes scrubbing all the grime off my flesh before changing into a fresh set of clothes.

Glancing at my watch, I note I have ten more minutes before my scheduled bedtime, so I grab my phone and dial my secretary.

“Giles, there was a situation at Wendy’s diner,” I say and give him a quick description of the location. “See to it that nothing gets out.”

“What kind of situation are we talking about?” he questions in that posh manner of his

“Code orange. Perhaps red. There were witnesses.”

“I see.” He pauses. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Giles. Good night.”

I hang up and put my phone to charge before I slide into the silky sheets and close my eyes.

What would I do without my precious routine?