Page 182 of Mayhem and Minnie

“W-where have you heard that name?” she whispers, her expression shocked.

I grab my phone and pull up the picture of Mina and Lucien and show it to her. My body is tense as I wait for her reply. Though I’ve kept this at the back of my mind, it’s been something that’s been bothering me from the beginning.

But now that I know for sure that she’s not human, that means she could very well have a longer lifespan, especially with those healing abilities of hers. That in turn suggests it could be her in the picture and not a distant relative as I previously thought.

And that only makes my blood boil further.

Biting her lip, she takes the phone from me with trembling hands. She studies the picture for moments on end, but her expression betrays everything.

There’s disbelief. But also something else…

Sadness.

Tears rim her lashes and I fear she might cry any moment now.

Taking a long and deep breath, she gives me back my phone and closes her eyes.

“This is you, isn’t it?”

She gives me a small nod.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“But you look the same.” I frown.

“I’m far older than I look, Marlowe.”

“How old?”

“Four thousand five hundred and fifty-eight years.”

She watches closely for my reaction. But I don’t betray anything—I’ll have time to examine this conversation later. For now, I need to know the most important thing.

“Did you love this man?” I ask, and the words cause physical pain to reverberate through my body.

She smiles sadly.

“I did. But he’s dead. Long gone. Ashes to the wind…”

The urge to smash something to pieces is unbearable. But I bottle it all up since I need more information. I need to know exactly who he was to her.

“It says here you were his betrothed. How are you still untouched, then?” My voice comes out harsh, but even a saint would crumble in front of this insane jealousy I’m feeling.

“I said I never slept with another male before,” she answers softly. “I didn’t say I never loved one.”

I stare at her, my cheek twitching. Somehow, the thought of her loving someone else in the past is more painful than the thought of her sleeping with another.

Because she should only love me. Not some random dude from the last century. She should only think of me.

“What happened?” I grind out.

“He died of consumption,” she mentions tersely.

Then it dawns on me.

“He’s that soulmate you kept talking about.”

The realization cuts me deeper than I would have imagined.

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