Havoc (Hostiles Sequel) 3/3

Mr. Robson

"I didn't know you could cook." Myrtle says to the man putting a storm together in the kitchen for the second time in a row. 

He must've been really hungry considering all the things he was cooking up and telling her about. He'd never spoken to her so much in their entire life together. Now all he seemed to do was talk, about his childhood, about the perfect way to make a keftede, about his mother's loukoumades, about how crisp a saganaki needed to be. He'd asked if he could make her dinner last night. She'd been cautious of course, because the kitchen had knives and all kinds of things he could use against her, but he had argued that if they were to spend the rest of their lives together she would have to trust him enough to let him cook. She could chop everything and watch his every move if she liked and he would taste everything before she ate it to make sure there was no secret ploy to poison her. He wanted to be able to cook when she was pregnant and tired, when she'd had a long day, to be able to fulfill every need and craving she could possibly have, unless she wasn't serious about having a baby with him. 

Last night she had helped him put together something called a chicken soulvaki with fresh made Pitas. It had been the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted if not slightly too spicy and they had sat beside each other by the kitchen bar and eaten every last one of them. He'd ravaged the food with such sheer joy and then he'd somehow transferred that joy to the way he ravaged her late into the night. The lovemaking had made complete sense of all the restraining orders she'd had to file on his behalf. It was a virile savage devouring that made her feel both passionately wanted and disgustingly used by a man she would give her all to. He hadn't stopped or winced when one of his neck wounds opened, letting tiny drops of blood all over her face, or when she leaned in to lick the wound and latched onto it with her mouth when the ecstasy took over. 

As she was finding out Dionysius Plutarch was a great cook and a romantic. He had always wanted a child, but with his previous status and all its trappings he had been scared that some unscrupulous woman would steal his sperm or fall pregnant as a cash grab. 

"Believe it or not I thought maybe marrying Makenna would solve it...maybe I could finally settle down and have a baby...but not even that..." Dionysius says, his thoughts drifting to Payton who had looked incredibly close to his imagination of what the precious Lewasi-Plutarch child oh his dreams would look like. 

"Can you imagine that, a black Plutarch...yuck!" Myrtle sighs shaking her head. At least Makenna was sensible enough to have kept the Plutarch name clean

Dionysius brings his thoughts back to his current reality, flipping the saganaki and forcing a soft smile onto his lips. 

"I suppose fate has its way with these things; that's why it brought us together." He says, throwing a smile back at Myrtle

She'd promised him that she'd soon stop drugging him all-together, but she couldn't stop it all at once or he'd die. He didn't know if he believed her, he also didn't have a choice in the matter. 

"We could have a bun in the oven right now." Myrtle says with a soft smile back, a cute white bun as beautiful as him, blue eyes and all

There was something so oddly unsatisfying about having won him over so easily... well it hadn't been easily at all but still. All she had really done aside from kidnap him, frame his wife for his murder, ply him with anti-epilepsy, sedative, erectile dysfunction and recreational drugs in differing doses, dye his hair blond, starve him, psychologically plague him with images of his own murder and pepper his perfect olive skin with some light knife-wounds was... let him cook and let him cum in her. Maybe it was the stress and the cumulative gratitude. It seemed to Myrtle, that without fully knowing it, she had rescued him from a mundane complicated and lonely life and now he could finally have what he'd always wanted. They could be a family, a somewhat normal one, she loved him for who he was, not his status or wealth, and he had decided, it seemed, that he will love her too. 

"We could... and I'd do anything for my family." Dionysius vows, feeling oddly protective of some as of yet unknown child grafted from his seed. 

"Then maybe we should start thinking about what this family will look like." She offers with a bright smile

Hadn't this been what she wanted anyway? Him, broken and delusional and somewhat in love with her? He brings over a plate with a hot piece of saganaki on it, cutting it up, gently blowing on it and then biting off a tiny piece before tenderly placing it in her mouth. It tasted delicious, even better when he presses his lips against hers unprompted. 

"What do you have in mind?" He wonders softly, pressing his lips against hers gently again before he shifts his leg braces and moves back to the hot pan. 

She'd made some adjustments to them, but those leg braces had been hers once upon a time. She smiles softly at the memory, licking the taste of his lips on hers. 

"The usual... name change, where we'll live, what jobs we'll take up next. Somewhere far from here but with some good school options for the kids." She lists happily

She was thinking Sicily or Majorca or maybe even somewhere in South America, Brazil. A happy little gorgeous family with a beach side cottage. 

"What's wrong with Mr & Mrs Robson?" Dionysius wonders lightly

It wasn't like anyone would go searching for Myrtle. Dionysius former personal assistant, now a disgruntled former employee of Sius... who would even start to think that she might be hosting a undead Plutarch

"you wouldn't have liked the original Mr. Robson, and he wouldn't have appreciated me replacing him this way." Myrtle flatly announces, her voice so curiously controlled Dionysius is forced to turn around and study her

She was trembling, sort of, forcing a smile on her face as she takes in a deep breath. 

"He's dead now. We should choose another name, maybe something French?" She adds

"Sure sweetie, whatever you want." Dionysius says, flipping the hot saganaki onto his plate

He didn't know if it was the glorious smell of Greek food and the nostalgia it brought him or the drugs coursing through his veins or the shackles on his feet. He didn't know if it was the bond between him and his unborn child growing inside her or if he'd simply grown mad from being undead and in captivity, but at that moment Dionysius began to understand that Myrtle had learned all these skills from someone. All the drug dosages and knife play and torture she had picked up from someone else, and he was beginning to suspect it was the very dead original Mr.Robson. He'd be damned before she did this to their child though!