Page 253 of Mayhem and Minnie

“I still get to have fun beating the living shit out of anyone who looks at you.”

“Yes, but?—”

“No buts. They wanted to have a look, and I let them have a look. But that comes with a price. It will always come with a price.”

She tilts her head to the side, studying me. Her brows are furrowed, her eyes troubled.

“I’ve known for a long time who you are, Marlowe—what type of man you are. But I’ve never really understood why.” She licks her lips. “How are you so violent? So bloodthirsty? You’re a kind man. I know you are. But this side of you…”

“This side of me?” I raise a brow.

“Sometimes it scares me,” she admits. “It fascinates me, but it scares me all the same.”

Now that’s the right praise. Giddiness explodes in my chest to the point that I forget I’m dirty, sticky, and covered in blood. She finds me scary and fascinating.

Ah, that must be the most romantic thing she’s ever said to me.

“When did you become like this?” she asks, her voice soft but firm.

34

Idon’t answer her. Getting out of the driver’s seat, I open the back door of the van and head inside. Rummaging through the drawers, I get the first aid kit and disinfectant, as well as a towel, a small bowl with water and some clean clothes to change into.

Minnie follows after me and closes the door to the van.

The space is small and seems even smaller from the thick tension clogging the air.

She wants an answer. I’m still formulating one—a more cosmeticized version of the truth that will keep that fascination there and will not turn it into terror. Or worse, contempt.

“Let me,” she murmurs as she grabs the first aid kit from me.

She takes a seat on the bed next to me and opens the kit. Dousing a bandage in disinfectant, she then wipes it all over my hand and knuckles, cleaning the injury and the residual blood around the area. Then she surprises me when she brings her lips to my flesh, her pink tongue peeking out to trace the hard ridges of the cuts from the glass.

My skin hums alive as her hot mouth opens over my flesh. The spot where her saliva touches, the wound slowly closes up.

I stare at her in shock.

“What…”

She smiles sheepishly.

“My saliva has a healing agent, too,” she murmurs. “It’s not as potent as my blood, but it can heal superficial wounds.”

She continues to lick my wounds slowly, methodically, until they all heal.

“Take off your shirt,” she says.

Not one to refuse such a command, I quickly divest of my shirt and throw it on the floor.

She grabs the same bandage, adds more disinfectant to it, and wipes the blood on my chest, neck, and face. Her touch is light but firm. She’s done this before, hasn’t she?

She worked for the Red Cross in 1918.

I quickly push that thought away because it will inevitably lead to Lucien again, and we promised not to speak about that anymore.

Even though I want to.

I want to ask her if she did the same for him. If she cleansed his wounds and put her lips on his skin to heal his injuries.

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