The Butterfly Killer

Chapter 11

11

Marcus watched with caution as Roman stirred a pot of stew on the small burner. The gas stove was barely a one-by-one size and compared to how tall Roman was, it looked even smaller. With one hand holding the wooden spoon, he used his free left hand to hold up a dog-eared book. The pages were badly torn and falling apart in some places. The cover barely held on. Marcus got only a glimpse of the cover as Roman had walked from his desk and around the bed to the kitchen. It looked to be a science fiction book of some sort, old, older than either of them by the looks of it.

Roman tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and then set it aside by the sink. He didn’t mark his place in the book, merely tossing it onto the small counter without much care.

He pulled out two small bowls and two spoons. He filled them up and brought them over to the side of the bed. He sat in the chair he’d pulled up earlier.

Marcus had managed to sit up and against the headboard. He bundled up in the thin blankets. If he so much as moved he would either break out in a sweat or get a flash of cold through his body that would have his teeth chattering.

Marcus watched as Roman sat one bowl on the make-shift nightstand. The box teetered from the weight. Marcus contemplated whether he should grab the bowl or not when Roman held up a spoonful of soup from the bowl he was still holding to Marcus’s face.

Marcus leaned his head back. “I’m not hungry.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. While his stomach was empty and aching for substance, the nauseas plaguing the rest of his body didn’t make him inclined to put anything in his mouth.

Roman’s eyes were blank as he simply stared back at Marcus. Then a sliver of amusement quirked over his lips. Another inside joke entirely lost on Marcus.

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Roman shoved the spoonful into his mouth.

The sound of Roman eating softly filled the room. The wind blew hard and beat against the small structure. There was a bead of fear in Marcus’s gut that the whole cabin would collapse in on itself. But Roman didn’t share his fear. He seemed entirely sure they were safe from the storm raging on outside.

If Marcus had the strength, he would have scoffed at the thought that he was “safe” here with this man. He stared at his lap instead. He twisted his fingers, picking at his cuticles, under the blanket. Roman had finished his bowl when he abruptly grabbed the blanket and yanked it off him.

He let out a surprised yelp and grappled from the safety net. Roman held it out of the way before tossing it onto the floor. He sat his empty bowl on the side table and then grabbed Marcus’s hands. Marcus tried to yank away, but Roman’s grip was like iron.

“Don’t pick at them,” he said in a dark tone. “You’ll get an infection.”

Marcus already felt like he had one. “Why do you care? You’re going to kill me anyway. Might as well save you the trouble.”

He knew dying anyway other than by Roman’s hands would piss the copycat killer off. It would be anti-climactic and would give the man no satisfaction. That’s why Marcus wished he would die though he didn’t want to. He was almost fine with it not being his choice.

Roman’s touch turned gentle. He slowly turned Marcus’s hand over so he had a better look at the wounds. His eyes were calculative as he looked at the marks Marcus hadn’t realized he’d put there. He hadn’t just been picking at his cuticles, he’d been mutilating them, stripping the skin so far back that it looked like he was trying to dig out his nails completely.

He recoiled, wincing at the wounds on his skin. He could barely look at them. His stomach twisted with revulsion he couldn’t stop.

Roman wasn’t at all bothered. That wasn’t a surprise. He’d most definitely seen and done worse. Though the same could be said about Marcus. He’d seen people stripped apart, but he couldn’t stand seeing something that wasn’t even close as bad as a dead body?

“You know as well as I do that neither of us want that.” Roman became disinterested in Marcus’s self-infliction. He stood, dropping Marcus’s hand like it wasn’t attached to a human at all.

He moved to his desk and opened a drawer. He grabbed a couple things before he came back. He held a small tube, a roll of gauze, and a pair of scissors.

Marcus moved back even though he knew he didn’t have the strength to fight Roman off. Roman snorted as he sat back down. He sat the things on the bed and scooted forward so his knees were against the mattress’s edge.

“I’m not going to fight you if that’s what you think,” Roman murmured. He didn’t look at Marcus as he unrolled the gauze and cut a short piece. He folded it in half before placing it delicately back on the bed.

Marcus watched the hands that had mutilated so many people before. They were precise and steady—whether from Roman’s taxidermy or his killing but it was from practice none-the-less.

Roman turned his hand over, palm facing up and open. Marcus looked from the offered hand and then up at Roman’s face, catching his eye. Marcus felt like he was falling into those dark eyes. He had to force himself back, figuratively and literally since he’d been leaning forward without his knowledge.

He swallowed, his throat still dry. He wasn’t thinking when he held his hand out and placed it into Roman’s palm.

There was no smirk or glint in Roman’s eyes as he started to patch up the tiny wounds on Marcus’s hand. He carried on as if this was just another task he needed to check off his to-do list. He worked quick and efficiently, but he didn’t rush his work.

He was gentle when he rubbed the anti-biotic cream onto each cuticle. Marcus flinched and let out a hiss when Roman moved to the worst wound on his pinky. Roman paused, eyes flickering up at Marcus’s pained face.

“You’re awfully pain-intolerant for being a cop,” Roman mused as he put Marcus’s hand down and waited patiently for the other.

Marcus didn’t hesitate this time. While painful at first, the cool cream on his wounds felt nice.

“Joining the police force doesn’t automatically give you physical abilities.”

Roman hummed. “Just privileges then.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “If you want to say something, say it. Hurting my feelings can’t be the worse you can do.”

Roman rose a brow with a small laugh. “Sometimes hurt feelings can be more painful than a literal knife in the back. Hold your hand out, fingers spread.”

Marcus did as he was told. Roman cut the gauze into smaller pieces and wrapped each finger. By the time he was done, Marcus looked ridiculous. His fingers looked bulbous and he couldn’t fully close his hands. He laid his hands flat, as much as he could, on the bed. Roman got up, taking the items with him. He put them away, turning his back to Marcus.

Marcus took the time to watch him without the man knowing. Though, he probably knew Marcus was staring anyway. Marcus just stared, taking in the way the man held himself, how he moved, and how his muscles moved when he lifted his arms. Marcus tried to find the clue in Roman’s body—the clue that would unlock all the answers Marcus had been building since the recent murders started.

It didn’t make anymore sense than when he didn’t know who Roman was.

Roman turned an inch, just enough to look at Marcus from the corner of his eyes. Marcus quickly averted his eyes. He took a deep breath as Roman returned to the chair, slouching and throwing one arm over the back.

He looked both ridiculous and model-esque with his long limbs awkwardly draped over the small chair. He resembled a spider not used to its legs.

“Are you done being scared of me?”

Marcus kept staring ahead. His jaw clenched before he chose his words carefully.

“Do you want me to be scared of you?”

Roman didn’t answer fast enough. A nervous tick swelled in Marcus’s throat. His head shook as he fought with himself to not turn his head and look at Roman.

“I don’t need you to be scared of me. That’s not what I need you for.”

Roman’s hand reached toward Marcus’s chest. Marcus struck his arm, jerking his head to lock eyes with Roman. His heart pounded painfully against his rib-cage, the look in his eyes a mixture of fear and anger.

Roman held his hands up in faux innocence. Both of his brows rose and the corner of his mouth twitched.

He thought this was funny. He thought Marcus was acting funny.

“You’re shivering. I thought you might be cold.”

As if make Marcus even more a fool, his teeth chattered.

He clamped his teeth tightly until his jaw ached. He grabbed the blanket and jerked it back up to chin level. He twisted to his side so he fully faced Roman because even though he might want Roman to think he wasn’t scared of him, he still didn’t trust the man to not do something.

Though, if he was strong enough to fight whatever that might be off was to be debated.

The lop-sided smirk fully bloomed over Roman’s face. They had a staring contest for a long couple minutes before Roman folded and grabbed the now cold soup. He returned it to the kitchen, pouring it into the large pot kept warm by the furnace.

“Help yourself if you’re hungry. And if you need to use the restroom, tell me.”

Marcus ignored him. He bundled deep into the blankets, shivering hard, but also sweating at the same time.

He felt like he was dying.

Roman closed the curtain behind him as he disappeared into his small working space. The sound of him going about his work and the crackling fire lulled Marcus into a place of being awake and asleep.

But he refused to close his eyes.

Marcus woke with the covers kicked to the foot of the bed, his arms hanging over the edge of the mattress, and his face squished into the pillow that had somehow been bundled up into a ball.

The way his cheek was pressed to his arm and the pillow made his lips pucker like a fish. There was just a little drool on the corner of his mouth that he wiped away as quickly as he could.

His plan to not fall asleep had failed miserably.

Though he still felt like shit, he felt much better than he’d felt before. His skin burned with a flush that was even present in the soles of his feet. However hot he was, he felt naked without the blanket on him. So, even though he flushed with another wave of heat, he grabbed the blanket and covered himself.

He looked around and immediately spotted Roman in the far corner. He reclined in an old beat-up recliner with the same frayed book he’d been reading earlier in his hand. He turned the page before looking up and back at Marcus.

“Good morning.”

Marcus’s brows furrowed as he tried to find a window. There wasn’t any. “Morning?”

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He just knew that when he tried to escape it had been light out. Though, that didn’t tell him much of anything because of the snow. It made everything brighter.

Roman looked back down at his book. His eyes scanned over the page quicker than they normally should have. Marcus couldn’t tell if he was pretending to read or if he was some sort of genius.

“I haven’t made breakfast yet. If you tell me what you want, I’ll see what I can do.” He turned another page, the paper crinkling as he did so. “I boiled a pot of water for tea or coffee if you like.”

Marcus’s bladder made itself known at the mention of any other liquid. He made a face at the sharp pain that rivaled the other stabbing pain in his ankle.

He pulled the blanket down to look at his foot. His eyes widened when he saw the swollen and blacken skin.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” He yelled in shock. He went to touch it but was scared to do so. His fingers hovered over the flesh.

Maybe it looked worse than it was? He didn’t remember getting hurt here and he thought by the look of it that the pain would be a lot worse.

“I did nothing to you.” Roman sat the book down on his lap. He picked up the mug sitting on a shelf next to him. “Did you forget your run in with another serial killer before I saved you?”

Marcus gave the man a disgusted look. “You didn’t save me.”

Roman was about to take a drink from his cup. He paused at what Marcus said. He looked over the brim, cold eyes meeting Marcus’s for another time but it still felt like the first each time.

“Excuse me, officer . I’m so sorry I interrupted you when you were clearly handling the situation.”

Marcus straitened up. His face went serious.

“I didn’t say that.” His fists clenched around the thin blanket.

Roman took another drink, eyes still on Marcus before he sat his mug back down. He licked his lips. Marcus’s eyes darted to the movement and then quickly to Roman’s eyes again—though that wasn’t much better.

Roman shrugged. “If he didn’t do that to you, then you must have stepped on it wrong when you were running.”

There was finality in Roman’s voice that Marcus didn’t agree with. He didn’t understand why exactly it made him angry. Perhaps it had to do with Roman’s tone. He spoke more-so at Marcus than to him. Like he was commenting on how silly a dog was being.

His face flushed not because of a fever for the first time since arriving here. The flush was a mix of embarrassment and fury for becoming the butt of the joke.

He seethed, clenching the blanket so hard his hands began to cramp. As much as he wanted to march over to the smug bastard, he couldn’t. He’d fall flat on his face if he tried to walk on his bad leg.

At the thought of it, he remembered why he’d been so pissed off at the man recently—because Marcus had many reason to be pissed at Roman.

He could barely stand to look at it. His wrapped fingers stretched out toward it, reminding him of his other injuries.

How had he ended up this way?

The question was rhetorical. He knew exactly how he ended up here. He just didn’t know why.

That reminded him of Roman’s words from before.

“What do you need me for?” He didn’t look away from his swollen ankle. He grazed the bruised flesh with the tip of his fingers. It was swollen and felt slightly hard. That couldn’t be good.

Roman reached for the pocket on his flannel shirt but paused. He pulled his hand away, turning his face while scrunching his mouth.

“Don’t worry about that. Focus on getting better.”

The words were dry. They were almost rehearsed and robotic. Marcus didn’t believe them for a second.

Roman reached for his pocket again. He cursed under his breath, snatching his hand away and then slamming the first on the armrest. He abruptly got up, kicking the throw blanket to the side as he strode over to the kitchen.

He roughly poured a cup of tea and brought it over to Marcus. He shoved it at Marcus without a word.

“Tell me,” Marcus ordered while ignoring the steaming liquid being forced upon him.

Roman narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, officer. I think you’ve forgotten where exactly you are. This isn’t a debate.”

He shoved the drink into Marcus’s chest. Marcus refused to flinch when the side of the cup burned him through his shirt.

“You won’t kill me until you get what you want.” He didn’t believe for a second that he was going to make Roman crumble. But there was a stubborn part of him that thought he might be able to annoy the man enough to give him something.

Roman slowly leaned closer. Marcus was strong enough to stop his eyes from widening, but not enough to stop himself from leaning back. Roman’s upper lip slightly curled as he glared into Marcus’s eyes.

“There is a lot I can do and still keep you alive.” Marcus flinched when Roman touched his other hand to his chest. He pressed his fingers between Marcus’s ribs. “I know my way around a body very well.”

Then, he straightened up, leaving Marcus gasping for air that kept evading.

The stoic look Roman wore so well was on his face again. He continued to hold the cup of tea out for Marcus to take. With shaking hands, he did, only because his brain was still trying to unravel his thoughts amidst the scary sickness overriding it.

The cup burned his hands. He continued holding it anyway.

“Drink up.”

Roman turned away, reaching for his breast pocket again and cursing when he came up empty.