Page 25

twenty-five

T he second I close the front door behind me, I know something is wrong. The bloody shoe prints on my faux hardwood are enough to tell me that much. I lean back against the door, locking it with a sigh. At least Patrice likes Huxley enough not to question his random appearances or weird hours. Especially now that she knows he’s an EMT.

But he’d better have a damn good reason to have gotten blood on my floor.

“Huxley…” I call with a warning in my voice as I drop my keys in the bowl by the door. His are there as well, so I know he at least had enough time to drop them there before leaving blood in my living room. “You’d better be dead, dying, or about to clean up my floor.” My voice is loud enough to carry, and it echoes off the walls as I look around.

The footsteps lead down the hallway, and his shoes are at least placed outside of my bedroom door instead of inside on the carpet, thankfully. But the string lights are on, keeping my bedroom dim and leading me further inside until I get to my bathroom.

“Well aren’t you something?” I say dryly, leaning on the doorframe as I gaze inside. Huxley is there in my large, comfortable tub with the water steaming. He’s leaning back against the wall, and there are smears of blood on his face.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it took for him to come here like this. I noticed he’d been getting itchy. Strange and restless.

Now my suspicions of why are confirmed.

“You can’t live without it, can you?” I ask, just watching as he barely reacts in the tub. He looks exhausted, and doesn’t even seem to notice the blood on his skin. My stomach turns, but only a little. Only enough to last a second before I push off of the doorframe to walk to the tub.

“It bothers you.” He sighs, still not opening his eyes. Because of the soapy water I can only see his chest and one arm resting on the side of the tub, but I still find myself kneeling beside it. “This,” he goes on. “I bother you right now.”

“Yeah,” I agree, and he moves slightly, almost like he’s surprised and nervous about the answer. “I’m bothered you got blood on my hardwood floors and that you’re too lazy to get the blood off your face.” I grab the already bloody rag and lean over the tub, reaching out to stroke my fingers along his skin just under his cheekbone.

“Fake hardwood,” he retorts, opening his eyes. He turns to look at me, watching as I clean the streaks of blood from his jaw. In the low light from my bedroom, he’s mysterious and looks a little bit dangerous.

And he definitely is. Just not to me in the same way he is to others.

“You’re cleaning it.” When he moves to turn away, I reach out to grip his hair and yank his face right back to me. “You’re so cleaning it. On your knees. In a maid outfit.”

“Oh, only if you hold my leash, pretty girl.” He clicks his teeth together inches from my fingers, and I snort at the little show of attitude. “While I’m on the floor and scrubbing.” When I move to pull away, his hand moves as quick as a cobra to grip my arm. “Don’t you want to ask me about it?”

My eyes hold his, and I cycle through all the possible responses in my head. Absently, I chew on my lower lip, and I can’t help noticing how my chest clenches around my organs, constricting and protective all at once.

“No,” I say finally. “I don’t know if I can ask. I don’t know if I can listen to the story of you killing someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Huxley shrugs, and sits up in the tub to touch my face with his other hand. “You don’t have to hear about it. But pretty girl, everybody dies. If not by my hand or because of some other killer, then by any of the other things in this world.”

“But they could’ve lived longer.” This is an argument I’ve fought not to have. “They could’ve?—”

Without warning, Huxley pulls me into the tub with a yelp. He’s careful, so my body doesn’t hit the porcelain in any place that might hurt, and he tugs me against him so my head is above water. “HUXLEY!” I shriek, dripping wet as my clothes stick to my body. At least all I’m wearing is a t-shirt and shorts, but still. It’s the principle of the matter. “What the?—”

“You were starting to get preachy,” he tells me sweetly. “And neither of us wants to argue about things we cannot change. You don’t want to hear about what I do when I get restless? That’s totally fine.” He wraps his arms around me, leaning forward so his knees bracket my legs. The water is still delightfully hot, and with the bubble layer on the top of it, it’s hard to remember there’s blood in this water under all of the soap.

Blood from someone who might not have deserved whatever Hux did to them.

“Fuck, you’re awful,” I murmur, not fighting his fingers as he tugs off my shirt and then goes for my shorts as well. “Did you know that you’re awful?”

“Yeah, I know I’m probably the worst,” Hux agrees. “But you don’t really mind, do you, pretty girl?” He turns me in his arms, until my back is pressed to his chest. “Don’t preach about things you can’t change, okay?” His hand brushes my inner thigh, and when I feel his fingers at my slit, I gasp and arch against him.

“Take a minute to think about how much it bothers you.” His tone is wicked, his advice awful. “I’ll give you something to distract you in the meantime.”

It doesn’t bother me enough. Not nearly enough, judging by how easy it was for him to distract me from my worries. After the bath, Huxley really does clean up the floors, while I watch and sip Dr. Pepper in a very judgmental way. He even gives a few shakes of his hips, covered by his loose sweatpants, that make me snort every time.

“I’m only letting you stay because Patrice is really charmed by your face,” I inform him when he’s done. He snags my can of Dr. Pepper from me and downs the rest of it, but I just watch him with a raised brow.

“I could kill her next,” he offers, tossing it in the trash in the kitchen. Then he goes to the fridge, pulling out a grocery bag that definitely wasn’t there before. “I’m cooking, by the way. Tacos.”

“A man after my heart. On both counts.” I hide my surprise that he can cook by sitting down at the island, my chin in my hands. “You can’t kill her.” I sigh at last, though I roll my eyes as I say it with long-suffering frustration. “It would probably, I don’t know, come back to bite me in the ass, somehow. This would somehow be the murder that you’re actually caught for.” I chew on my nail while he works, and I realize he’s actually really good at fixing food.

Judging by the fact that my idea of cooking is throwing something in the microwave or maybe even the oven in a pan if I’m getting frisky. Though, that’s of course right after I’ve pulled it out of the freezer. But here Huxley is, making everything from scratch on the stove. He’s even using a cutting board I didn’t know I had until now.

“Are you trying to win points?” I ask. “Like, for me to keep you around?”

“Is it working?”

“Depends on how good those tacos are.”

He chuckles, and when he can, comes over to rest his forearms on the counter to meet my eyes, leaning in to gently brush his lips to mine. “I don’t need to win any more points, Kai. You’re stuck with me no matter what.” He’s close enough when he says it that I feel the words fan against my lips.

I don’t sit back. I kiss him back, deepening our connection, until I finally have to break for a breath. “You should keep trying anyway.” My words are soft, and his shudder makes me wonder if he can feel them like I felt his.

“Oh, yeah? What’s the next prize I’m aiming for? Killing Patrice?”

My grin widens, and I reach out to tangle my fingers in his t-shirt to lick at his lower lip. “It’s a surprise. So keep trying to find out, Hux.”