2.2 Marcus

It was also a shock to see proof of his suspicions live in front of him. While Marcus wouldn’t consider himself a huge fan of the actress (though some of his friends would loudly disagree), he had paid some attention to her career over the years. Long enough to spot the edge of sadness that tinged every performance. Many tabloid websites had claimed everything from illegal drugs to a hidden back-alley abortion, but domestic abuse had never come up because no one wanted to accuse the Liam Hardison of raising a hand to his spouse. Not without proof anyway.

Well now here he was, standing right in front of said proof singing prettily over a plate of coffee and eggs, the faint smell of blood and anti-bruising cream stinging inside Marcus’s nose like sulphur in a coalmine with the canary long dead.

You weren’t good enough back then, and she suffered because of it. She’s still suffering for it.

Coughing gently to get her attention, Marcus lifted a hand in greeting when Vivienne let out an adorable squeak and spun around at the sound. “Oh–! Marcus, I didn’t notice you come in!” She greeted, patting down her shirt with flaming red cheeks. There were a few tiny splatters of oil on it, Marcus noted idly. With the faint bags under her eyes, sleep-rumpled appearance, and messy hair, it was a stupidly effective combination. The man was struck with the urge to scoop her into his arms, wrap her in blankets, and make sure she got a good night’s sleep. To wrap her in himself until his scent soaked deep into her skin and hers into his.

This was not something he wanted to be thinking about someone who was more or less a stranger, let alone his employer.

“It’s early. I didn’t know anyone else was awake,” she remarked curiously.

“I like to do some light exercise in the mornings,” he replied shortly, using the hem of his vest to wipe the sweat from his brow. It also performed the dual function of muffling that warm, inviting scent. It was best to keep their conversations brief and to the point. The less time they talked, the less time he could indulge in staring into her pretty doe-brown eyes, wondering what they’d look like if he flipped her around and bent that tiny body over the marble countertop.

Marcus was grateful that Vivienne had no shifter genes and would thus remain blissfully unaware of the filthy directions his mind had careened off in.

There was a sudden uptick in her heartbeat, and Marcus lowered his shirt sharply, eyes darting around the sparse kitchen for a sign of a threat. He was confused to find nothing aside from Vivienne nodding thoughtfully at what he had said.

“I wish my reason was anywhere close to being that good. I just couldn’t sleep for most of the night, and then I got hungry.” She spun the wooden spatula invitingly in the direction of the stove. “Do you want some?” Vivienne asked, smelling like a heady cocktail of nervous, friendly, hopeful, and a hint of lust. “I’m just making scrambled eggs and toast. It’s nothing crazy, but I can throw in some bacon and sausages too if you would like.”

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” Marcus responded, hating the way the aroma soured into disappointment and hating himself even more for inquiring further, “what about your husband?”

The word had burned his lips when he spoke, but that was nothing compared to the expression of pure rage that crossed Vivienne’s features. She quickly whipped around and grabbed the vacuum-sealed packet of turkey sausages that had been resting on top of the counter.

“What about him?” She returned, acid dripping from every syllable as she stabbed through the plastic wrap with the kitchen knife. The blade dragged across the plastic, ripping it open as though the seal was the edge of a throat. “He’s not home. Probably across town in some hotel sleeping with the first barely legal debutante willing to swallow his promises alongside everything else. Ow!”

In an instant, Marcus was at her side, cupping her hand in his own and examining her fingers for any sign of an injury. The cut was small, a hair-thin line that nonetheless bubbled with fresh blood and perfumed the air with the tang of iron and copper. “Be careful,” he grunted.

“I’m fine!” Vivienne snapped, ripping her hands away so fast that Marcus was left blinking in surprise at the sudden surge of panic buzzing between them and the acrid bite of anxiety stinging his nose.

Slowly, he held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No, I’m–” Vivienne’s shoulders sagged, exhaustion apparent in every line of her body. “I’m sorry. You’re just trying to do your job, and it’s not like any of this is your fault. If you’re not hungry, there’s some coffee in the press. Just make sure to refill it if you finish the whole thing.”

Marcus nodded, trying valiantly to fight off the instincts growling at him to get closer, comfort her, protect her. This was only a job, and he could not go around sinking his teeth into his client. No matter how good she smelled, or how silky soft her skin looked, or how much her sad brown eyes threatened to swallow him whole.

Fuck but she looked so adorable all teary eyed. Lust and self-loathing were not the two emotions he wanted to experience at the same time, especially not so early in the morning, but here he was picturing what Vivienne’s face would look like stained with tears of pleasure. It wouldn’t take much to pin her down, keep her thighs wrapped tight around his head like the prettiest pair of headphones. Marcus was already used to being the biggest person in the room at any time – a combination of genetics and shifter phenotype – but Vivienne was short even by average human standards.

Mine. Protect what’s mine. “Thank you, Vivienne,” he managed to hold himself nice and still when she mustered up a wan smile and drifted past him to head back upstairs with her breakfast plate in tow. Marcus couldn’t bring himself to breathe properly until he heard the click of her bedroom door shut, and then he inhaled greedily the sweet remnants of the scent of her body.

Well, this is going to be a difficult couple of weeks.