Marceline Red Boots Novels & Stories

Marcel yelled. “I think not. We have some business to attend to. I have a few questions to ask you, and I would love for you to answer me as truthfully as possible else my friend here would be willing to draw some tattoos on your body for me.” Fred threatened. “I have nothing to say to you.” Marcel said. “Wrong answer.” Red said as he walked to a table top at the back of Marcel. He brought out a box and opened it up, revealing several tools like hammers, pliers, nails, and a lot more.

The ever-aloof devil she was now legally bound to. The maids had already vanished, like ghosts slipping through the walls, leaving behind a steaming tray of breakfast on the table—far too extravagant for one person. Marceline padded across the room, her bare feet brushing against the marble floor, cold and indifferent like everything in this mansion. She walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a short, lilac chiffon dress that barely brushed her thighs. She turned, clutching the dress to her chest, intending to return to the bathroom. That’s when his voice sliced through the silence.

he said with an apologetic expression. My hand clenched tightly. What was wrong with that woman? Even after I warned her to stay away, here she was again. “You’re home, Dom.” I heard her voice behind me. I turned to see her walking out of the house like she owned it, wearing her usual irritating smile. She had on a black dress and a hat. The style looked familiar, and then I remembered—Marceline had worn the same style once, only hers was red. “I was waiting for you,” she said softly, stopping just a few steps from me.