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“You’ve already drowned me once,” she scolds, sinking onto her knees beside the bath instead. “No repeats.”

A shadow crosses her face as she leans forward, the full weight of her body pressing into her knees. Her jaw clenches, her eyes stare into the middle distance. Then she sniffs, shaking her head.

“Okay.” I hold up my arms. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, but you’ll need to wash me everywhere. No skipping.”

Her expression brightens until it hurts to look directly at her.

“What was your plan?” I ask, genuinely interested in how much thought she’d given this attack. “After you were successful, what were your plans for the six-foot-four corpse in your bedroom?”

She sits back on her heels. “Set a fire and watch you burn.”

“Do you know how long that’d take?”

“Who cares? I wouldn’t be sticking around for all of it.”

“Just long enough to toast some marshmallows, right?” The smile she gives me is wide, genuine, and shrinks my chest until it’s ten sizes too small. “I’m not sure you’re safe to be around.”

“That’s the idea,” she retorts. “You’re meant to stay away.”

But it’s hard to take the words seriously when she lathers the loofah again, sliding it over the muscles of my chest and abdomen, eyes fixed to the slow progress like she doesn’t want to miss a second.

Her lashes flutter, and she gives a shy smile. “What would you do? If you had to dispose of a six-foot corpse?”

The tone is teasing, but there’s a haunted look to her eyes. “Are you sure you can stomach the details?”

“Pretty sure. My favourite movies are horror.”

I run my fingers through her hair and this time she lets me, gaze steady as she waits for the answer. “My uncle has an abattoir. A few minutes with the machines and I could break a body into manageable chunks, then mince the flesh, grind the bones into paste, and pour it into the slurry.”

There’s a second where she looks… disappointed? Just a flash, there and gone. Then she leans over the tub, soaping my body, cleaning it with long strokes that turn my mind dirty.

“What are these from?” she asks, tipping a handful of water over my side to clear the bubbles. Her fingertip traces the outline of the scars there. The parallel lines too neat to be anything but deliberate.

“Are we at the point in our relationship where we’re comparing scars?”

Francesca’s brow furrows, eyes briefly meeting mine before she stares at the lines again. “I don’t have any. Not on the outside.”

I cup her neck, pulling her into a kiss, the urge immediate and overwhelming. Although her shoulders stiffen in surprise, her lips are soft, yielding. They make my skin erupt into tingles, amplifying each gentle touch.

“Your fingers will scar.” I take away the loofah and straighten them, exposing the two with red lines sliced across the pads. “No more knives, you hear me? You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

An incredulous expression crosses her face, and she bursts out laughing. “Are you serious? I just tried to stab you in the heart, and you’re worried about a scratch.”

“You could’ve done some nasty damage. Was it loose under your pillow this whole time?” When she nods, I clutch her hand to my chest. “What if you’d flailed about at night? You could’ve severed a tendon.”

“I don’t sleep in bed most nights.”

A moment after the admission slips from her mouth, she stares at the floor, avoiding my searching gaze.

“Where do you sleep?” But even though she shrugs instead of answering, I can guess. “In the car? But what’s wrong with the house?” I sit up, sloshing a wave of water over the lip of the tub. “Are there weird chemical readings or something? Is it the mould on the walls?”

She pouts. “A gentleman doesn’t mention the mould on a lady’s walls.”

We stare at each other for a full second, then explode into laughter. “That’s the worst euphemism I’ve ever heard.” I cup my arm when my shaking shoulders makes the pain flare, the wound indignant I’m having fun.

And I am. I’ve never experienced this intense burst of emotion.

It’s usually just the anger, a constant pulse. That and the nagging sensation that if I strip away the perks of my uncle’s largesse, there’s nothing left. Underneath the car, the house, the clothes, even the sporting ability, my only use is following orders. Not man enough to be a bigger player.