Chapter 6

The floor creaks.

I shoot up and my eyes collide with the electric clock on the desk across from my bed.

Four o’clock. In the middle of the fucking night.

More noise.

Steps thud on the floor, followed by a rapid descent onto the stairs.

My features harden.

Not even one night and she’s already breaking my rules.

Getting out of bed, I put on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and head downstairs to investigate.

I barely reach the top of the stairs when I hear a loud bang, followed by a muffled whimper.

I stifle a groan.

What the hell did this girl do this time?

Ready to give her a lengthy lecture about her rule breaking—and maybe throw her out into the snow, I march down the stairs with determination. The source of the noise is coming from the kitchen.

But just as I reach the entrance of the kitchen, I stop in my tracks, my eyes wide with shock.

“What the…” I trail off. I blink once, twice—just to make sure I’m seeing this right.

My little heathen is standing in the middle of the kitchen next to a broken plate. But it’s not the shards of porcelain on the floor that grab my attention.

It’s the fact that she’s naked.

Fully naked.

Naked like the day she was born naked.

My body freezes, my eyes zeroing in on her breasts.

For such a slender woman, her breasts are on the heavier side. They’re full and round, with light pink nipples. They’d probably fit in my palms. And I have large palms.

I swallow uncomfortably.

Heat travels up my neck.

I force myself to look away from her breasts, but instead of averting my gaze completely, my eyes follow the contour of her body. Her stomach is taut and her abdominal muscles are showing. Yet I don’t think that’s a consequence of exercise, but rather of starvation. Her ribs, too, are poking through.

Fucking hell!

She will not go hungry anymore—that’s a vow I make to myself. I don’t know where that’s coming from or why I feel so protective over this slip of a girl who goes against every rule I’ve set for myself.

I should focus on ways to kill her to satisfy my bloodlust, not ways to protect her and see to her every comfort.

To my dismay, my eyes betray me once more as I glance lower. There’s a dark triangle of hair at the junction between her thighs, hiding her most private part.

I’ve never believed myself to be the type swayed by such a sight, but there’s a part of me that wants to know the secrets it hides.

I swallow again, and this time, it’s like a knot forms in my throat.

I shouldn’t notice her nakedness. I shouldn’t react to it in any way—I’ve never been prone to such an affliction before. Yet the more I stare at her, the more I feel my body come to life in unfamiliar ways. My clothing becomes restrictive. Even my baggy sweatpants do little to keep my reaction in check.

Fuck! This is blasphemous!

And why the fuck is she not covering herself?

She just stands there, staring back at me with those big doe-like eyes of hers. Her arms are by her sides, and she makes no effort to shield any part of herself.

Is this on purpose?

I narrow my eyes at her.

Is she doing this on purpose in an attempt to seduce me?

Did someone put her up to this?

My family?

My thoughts go around in circles as I think of a myriad of reasons as to why she’d be in my kitchen, naked, and gazing at me with an inviting look in her eyes.

I think back to the many times she asked me if I find her irresistible and how she’s repeatedly brought up the fact that I may expect something physical from her. Then there are also her claims to be untouched.

If my mother had a hand in this, then she would have instructed her to say that, thinking it would appeal to my obsessiveness about cleanliness. My mother has been trying to set me up with women for years now—all attempts a failure. But that doesn’t mean she’s given up. Maybe she’s just changed her tactics.

But how would she have known that I’d stop to help her? That in itself is antithetical to my behavior. I don’t help people. I don’t step out of my way to be kind. I certainly wouldn’t risk getting out of the comfort of my warm car to go out into the cold and get involved in something that’s none of my business.

Yet that’s exactly what you did.

I scowl.

This is odd. Something about Minnie is suspicious, but I don’t know what.

Unfortunately, with that suspicion also comes curiosity. And I’ve never been one to leave any stone unturned when my curiosity is piqued.

“What are you doing?” I rasp out.

She blinks. She looks down at the broken plate, then back at me. Two pink dots stain her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I was hungry, and you didn’t bring the leftovers from the car, so I was trying to find something in the fridge. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“You’re naked, Minnie,” I state the obvious since she’s still not making any effort to cover herself.

Her brows furrow.

I gesture to her body.

“You have no clothes on.”

“Oh,” she says as she glances down at her naked body. “I didn’t have any clothes to put on since they were dirty. I did wash them in the shower but…”

“Are you not in the least embarrassed?”

“Why?” She frowns.

“Because you’re naked.”

“You keep saying that.” She scrunches her nose—and it’s too damn cute.

“Because you’re naked!” I throw my arms up in exasperation.

“And? Why is that an issue?” She appears perplexed, which in turn makes me even more confused.

What the hell is happening?

“Do you always walk around naked in strangers’ houses?”

“Well, no,” she answers blankly. “You’re not a stranger.” She gives me a brilliant smile.

I sigh and scrub a hand over my face. This isn’t working.

“Do you walk around naked in other people’s presence?” I rephrase my question.

She shakes her head.

“Then I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do this again. Put on some clothes.”

“But they’re wet,” she answers with a pout. “And I don’t understand why you’re so hung up on my nakedness. It’s a natural state. There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she chides.

“Minnie!” I groan aloud.

“What? I don’t understand why you’re so upset with me.”

Shaking my head, I shrug my shirt off and throw it to her.

“Put that on.”

She mumbles something under her breath but does as told. With her height, my shirt is more like a dress on her and it finally covers everything that might have tempted me to gawk like a goddamn horny teenager. Of course there are still her legs, and they’re very nice legs indeed.

Focus, Marlowe! It’s not the time to admire her legs.

Perhaps her time in prison changed her views on nakedness since she wouldn’t have had much privacy there.

When she’s covered, I finally dare to get closer to her. I lean down to pick up the pieces of broken plate so she doesn’t cut herself on them. She gets to her knees to help me clean up and through this proximity, her scent wafts toward me.

She’s…clean.

I inhale deeply.

There’s the scent of soap, but there’s also something else. A sweet scent that tickles my senses.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again.

“It’s just a plate.” I sigh. “Did you find anything to eat?”

She shakes her head.

I throw the broken pieces into the trash bin and go to the fridge. I take out a couple of premade sandwiches and hand them to her.

She licks her lips as she stares at them.

Good God! You’d think she hasn’t eaten in forever when just a few hours ago she had a full meal. But just as that thought crosses my mind, I berate myself. She probably hasn’t eaten in so long that she’s perpetually hungry.

Glancing back at my fridge, I realize I’ll need to restock it soon.

“Thank you so much,” she exclaims as she grabs them.

She quickly unwraps them and wolfs them down in a few bites. And when she’s done, she licks her fingers for any remaining trace.

“We’ll get more food tomorrow,” I find myself telling her. “We’ll go grocery shopping and you can pick up whatever you want.”

Her eyes widen with wonder.

“Really? I’m not that picky. I can eat mostly anything.”

“I can see that,” I mutter drily.

She doesn’t notice my jibe, still sucking her fingers dry.

“Come with me,” I say as I turn to leave the kitchen.

For the thousandth time in one day, I ask myself what the hell I’m doing. I should already be planning her murder—something novel and exciting—but instead, my new fantasy seems to be to fatten her up.

I’m out of the kitchen when I realize she’s not following. I turn, raising a brow at her.

Her hand is covering her mouth, her entire body shaking with amusement.

“And what’s so funny?” I ask as I tilt my head to the side.

“You,” she says and points a finger at me. A loud giggle erupts and she places an arm around her midriff as she bends over with laughter.

My lips press together in annoyance.

“Me?” I ask slowly.

She nods vigorously.

“Now you are naked!” Another giggle.

I blink and look down at myself. I’m shirtless, it’s true. But I’d hardly call this naked.

“It’s different,” I mutter.

“How so?” she asks, an amused smile still painted on her face.

“I’m a man. I don’t have…breasts.” Heat climbs up my face. Why the hell am I getting flushed over saying the word breasts aloud? It’s as if I were still a child being told off by my mother for saying a bad word. Alas, perhaps washing my mouth with soap did pay off after all.

Minnie sobers up. Striding toward me, she stops in front of me. Before I know what she’s about to do, her finger is poking me in the chest, right over my nipple.

She’s barely touching me, but her flesh is so hot, it’s almost burning a hole through me.

A shudder goes down my back.

“Yes, you do,” she states, quite pleased with herself. “Why aren’t you embarrassed then?”

“I told you. It’s different. I’m a man,” I repeat as I—reluctantly—remove her finger from my person.

“No. It’s not,” she reiterates, placing her hands on her hips and staring at me defiantly. “You’re just mi-mi-mi…” Her brows scrunch up together. Her mouth remains open as she tries to think of the word she’s going to use to insult me.

“Misogynistic?” I offer.

“That word! You’re mis-miso?—”

“Misogynistic,” I repeat, laughing.

“See, that right there.” She points accusingly at me. “Why should you be allowed to be naked but not me?” she demands with a humph.

“Because this is my house and I make the rules. Now come along, little heathen. I’ll clothe you for the night,” I say, turning once more and heading for the stairs.

My lips are pulled up in an amused smile, especially as I hear her muttering something inaudible under her breath—likely cursing me some more.

“Just for the record. I’m not a misogynist. But I’m a stickler for rules. I gave up my own clothing so you could hold onto your modesty.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she mumbles in a low voice.

I shake my head. She’s an amusing little thing.

We get to my wing of the house, and I ask her to wait for me outside my door. She’s about to ask why, but I close the door in her face before she can muster up some more inane arguments—I really need to get back to sleep soon.

I rummage through my closet and find a pair of unworn boxer briefs and a couple of white shirts. I would give her a pair of pants, too, but unfortunately, they would likely reach her neck.

Damn it. I suppose that since I’ve made myself in charge of her, I might as well clothe her too.

I open the door and hand her the clothes.

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow for clothes. But these should work until then. You still have your pants, no?”

She studies the clothing, giving me an absentminded nod.

“They’re wet. But they should dry up until the morning,” she mentions, her eyes still on the clothes—particularly on the boxer briefs, which she regards with skepticism.

“I’ve never worn them,” I feel compelled to add.

She purses her lips, and I swear I almost hear her say pity. But who the hell would say that about worn underwear?

Gross.

A shudder goes down my back at the mere thought.

“Thank you. It’s very kind of you.” She smiles, then turns to leave.

“Wait!” I call out.

She raises her brows as she angles her body toward me.

“The laundry room has a washer and a dryer. Grab your jeans and follow me. I’ll show you to it.”

“But they’ll dry eventually,” she says with a frown.

“They might, but they also might not. I’m not sure how well you were able to wash them in the shower. It’s better if you wash them again and then dry them properly—all within a couple hours too.”

What I don’t say is that I would feel better knowing her jeans are properly washed. Who knows how long she’s been wearing them? A quick wash in the shower doesn’t count. They probably need bleach or disinfectant at this point. If it wasn’t her only pair of pants, I would have trashed them immediately.

Alas.

I take a deep breath.

Just a few more minutes. I’ll show her to the laundry room and she can take care of herself. Even better, with it being on the right wing of the house, under her bedroom, that should keep the noise to a minimum and allow me to get back to my sleep.

She grabs her wet clothes, which frankly, still look dirty, and she follows me to the laundry room.

“Here,” I say as I open the door.

There are two washers and two dryers. When I start cleaning, I wash everything I encounter in my path, so one would have never been enough. Alas, one is for my personal clothing while the other is for household things.

I open the cupboards in the back to reveal my prized stash of detergent.

“You can choose which scent you’d like.”

I’m even allowing her to use my stash. That in itself is revolutionary.

“And here are drying sheets,” I continue as I open another cupboard.

Minnie stares at me with wide eyes, slowly nodding.

“You’ll use this one,” I say, pointing toward the machine designated for household things. At least that way, I’ll have some peace of mind. “You know how to use a washing machine, right?” I ask, just to make sure.

She wets her lips.

“O-of course. Piece of cookie!”

“Cake.”

She frowns.

“Piece of cake,” I correct.

Her mouth forms a small O before she nods.

“Piece of cake,” she repeats, smiling brightly.

Before I go, I find myself mentioning, “You should go for the heavy soil and double rinsing setting. And don’t be too stingy with the detergent.”

Those clothes need all the help they can get. Even though they’re going to be burned the moment she has a new wardrobe.

“Marlowe?” She calls my name just as I’m about to leave the room. I stop in the doorway and turn.

“Thank you. For everything. You have no idea what this means to me.” She gives me a shy smile as she crosses her legs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

I gulp down.

Now that she’s clean, I can let my eyes roam over her face without the previous disgust—not that I could even call it disgust, which in itself was surprising. There’s something striking about her. I wouldn’t call her a beauty, not in the traditional sense. But there’s something warm about her presence, something that goes beyond her physical appearance. Something…that puts me at ease and I’m never at ease with other people.

I grunt, unable to form a coherent sentence, and before I say something I might regret, I get out of the room and close the door behind me. Spotting a slight trail of wetness on the floor, I grab a mop and wipe it clean until everything is spotless again—until balance is restored.

You need to sleep, Marlowe. You need your eight hours of sleep. Otherwise, the next day will be ruined.

After I make sure the kitchen and living room are clean—since I will not be able to sleep otherwise—I force myself to put one step in front of the other until I reach my room. I lock the door—for my safety and hers—I take my sweatpants off and slide between the sheets. I close my eyes and start counting, knowing sleep will come.

One hundred eighty-nine, one hundred ninety, one hundred…

Just as I feel my lashes heavy with sleep, a loud screech penetrates the stillness of the house.

I shoot up, and my eyes collide once more with the clock.

It’s almost dawn.

Fucking hell! I’ll never get any sleep at this point.

I get out of bed, shrug on my sweatpants and a shirt and go investigate what went wrong this time.

Yet just as I get closer to the laundry room, I spot wetness seeping through the door, followed by small bubbles.

My eyes widen in horror.

Surely no…

I swallow hard as I push the door open.

“What the fuck, Minnie!” I thunder.

The entire floor of the laundry room is covered in bubbles. Minnie is sitting on the floor, drenched from head to toe. Her hair too is wet and the white shirt I’d handed her before is now clinging to her skin, once more leaving nothing to the imagination.

A pop resounds in the air before more bubbles exit the machine.

And to make matters worse, instead of trying to do something about this insanity, this damn little heathen takes her finger and sticks it in the bubble, then giggles.

She turns to me then, her entire face lit up with mirth.

“It’s bubbles, Marlowe! So many bubbles!”

Good fucking Lord! I must have bubbles for a brain for thinking it would be okay to leave her alone for one moment.

“Right. So many bubbles,” I mutter drily.

It’s not too late to kill her, no?