Page 183 of Mayhem and Minnie

“He is, isn’t he?” I demand when there’s no forthcoming answer.

“Marlowe, I think we should talk about something else. This clearly upsets you and?—”

“No. We’ll talk about this. Now. I don’t care a damn whit if you’re not human. But I do care that you apparently have another man in your past. Someone you loved,” I spit the word love as if it were the most disgusting thing in the world.

And it is.

Because it belongs to someone else.

Someone who is not me.

She looks away.

“You said you were waiting for him. Why? How?”

“That was… It was to make you jealous,” she stammers.

“Is that so?” I raise a brow. “I don’t believe it.”

“But it was… Marlowe, he’s long gone. You don’t need to overreact…”

“Overreact?” I echo as I get to my feet. “You just told me you loved another man. My fiancée told me she was in love with someone else in the past. How would you want me to react?”

Her lips tremble as she stares at me.

“Let me guess. He proposed to you because you wouldn’t put out for him either.”

“Marlowe!” she cries out, her mouth dropping open in shock. “That’s uncalled for.”

“Is it?” I snicker.

“He was a sick man. I cared for him and we fell in love. He died. That’s the end of the story. I don’t know why you’re making this into something bigger than it has to be.”

“Don’t you know? Weren’t you the one who gave me the cold shoulder treatment for weeks because you thought I’d slept with hundreds of women?”

“But this is different,” she protests.

“No. It’s not. You were jealous at the thought of other women having laid claim to my body. I’m jealous because I now know another man laid claim to your heart,” I grit out.

A tear slips down her cheek, and immediately, I regret my tone.

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” she whispers. Her voice is muffled, as if she’s trying to keep the sobs at bay.

Pain strikes in my chest.

“I knew you’d react like this.” An audible sob. “I knew you wouldn’t…like me anymore.”

“Minnie,” I whisper and get down on the floor next to her. “Please don’t cry. I don’t like it when you cry.”

“Then why are you making me cry?” she asks in a small voice.

“Because I’m a fucking bastard who deserves a good whipping. And I’m also filled with an insane jealousy that’s making me act like a prick.”

She sniffles and wipes her nose with her sleeve.

Odd, but even that bit doesn’t seem as repulsive as before. Instead, I only want to punch myself repeatedly for making her feel like this.

“He’s gone. You are not. You’re here with me, and I choose to be here, too,” she says in between sobs. “I’m in constant danger of being caught, yet I still choose to be here. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

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