Allegiance (The Penton Vampire Legacy) (8 page)

At the mention of the old Southern Mills building, a shadow crossed Krys’s face, visible even in the dim light of the porch. She’d almost died at that old hulk of a rotting building—more than once. Shame filled Melissa’s chest at the bolt of jealousy that shot through her. Krys had been turned vampire, but Krys’s and Aidan’s love for each other had survived it. Of course, Krys had mated with Aidan when she was still human. That choice hadn’t been forced on her.

“I haven’t been down there since . . .” Krys didn’t need to finish that sentence.

“If he’s not at the community house, come back here and catch up with him later.” Melissa couldn’t imagine going back into that building where so much fear and hurt had taken place. Most of the clinic subsuites had collapsed, and there was no need for her to revisit the place where Matthias had held her captive. “No need to put yourself through seeing it again.”

“Nope.” Krys got that determined look, and there was no point arguing with her once her jaw had clenched into that firm set. “I need to go back there and face it. Besides, I want to meet this guy. What happened to Mark and Robbie was no accident, and he’s the newest person in town.”

A familiar and unwelcome tingle of fear streaked across Melissa’s scalp. “It was deliberate? Are you sure? Who would want to hurt Rob? Or Mark or Max, for that matter?”

“Mirren’s sure of it, and that’s good enough for me.” Krys had walked a good half-block toward the mill before she called out over her shoulder, “By the way, stay with Mark until he falls asleep, would you? Sure you would. Thanks!”

Damn it. Melissa hadn’t even decided whether or not to go inside, much less babysit Mark until he fell asleep. But she climbed to her feet and walked onto the porch. Her hand wavered over the knob to the heavy front door; it felt like some kind of stone that, if rolled away, would let all of her guilt and fear come spilling out.

But Mark had been hurt, and she had failed him. Two facts. If he needed to lay a little guilt on her tonight to feel better, she could suck it up and take it. She owed him that much.

  
CHAPTER 7
  

K
rys meant well with her little morphine shot, delivered in a low dose as a nod to Mark’s history of addiction. What she didn’t realize was that his junkie days were recent enough that he wasn’t likely to keel over into unconsciousness from anything other than enough morphine to fell a rampaging rhino. He’d probably always have a high tolerance to any kind of opioid.

Opioid. A good vocabulary word. Maybe if he ever had a kid, that would be its name. Melissa couldn’t have children, but deep inside, he’d thought they would leave Penton someday and adopt kids—although they’d need Aidan’s help, given their shaky personal histories. He doubted any adoption agent had ever uttered, “Sure, we’ll be happy to turn over this child to the depressive with suicidal tendencies and the overeducated junkie.”

Didn’t matter now. He could kiss that little domestic daydream good-bye.

He’d told Krys not to give him anything for pain, said he could tolerate the clench of muscles in his back and the pain that knifed in sharp bursts all the way to his knees. But when he broke into a cold sweat after the twenty or so steps from the car to the house, she knew he’d been lying. He couldn’t tolerate that much pain, not gracefully. It sliced through his back like a heated blade.

After the shot, it still hurt like a sorry bastard, but the tentacles of agony stayed rooted in his lower back instead of racing up and down all the nerve endings in his hips and legs.

Better living through chemistry. It had been the only motto he’d lived by for most of his late twenties, years whose details had blended into a big, drug-addled fog.

Krys had left a few minutes earlier, but Mark still heard her soft voice outside. He pulled the dark curtain aside a fraction to see her on the porch, talking to someone.

He moved the curtain farther. Not someone. Melissa.

Mark waited for the familiar twinge of heartache the sound of Mel’s voice usually brought, but it didn’t come. Maybe he was over her.

Or maybe he’d had enough morphine to kill the heartache kind of pain.

Whatever the cause, the rise and fall of her voice made him angry instead of sad, and he welcomed the anger like a beloved friend. He deserved to be angry, damn it. He should’ve been angry a long time ago. Ever since Melissa had been rescued from Matthias and attached herself to Cage Reynolds as if he were a six-foot security blanket with abs, Mark had turned into a pathetic sap.

Anger was a welcome change.

Hopefully, Krys was telling her to get lost. Maybe he’d climb into bed and feign unconsciousness in case she came in anyway, because Melissa usually did what she wanted. He doubted becoming a vampire had curbed her pigheadedness. Once she decided to do something, changing her mind took an act of God Himself. Or, at the very least, Aidan Murphy.

Yep, faking unconsciousness was an excellent idea.

Mark turned in a slow, stooped swivel, stopped a few seconds to see if the pain worsened or sent him to his knees, and shuffled like an old geezer toward his bedroom. He’d toed off his shoes when he came in the house, so his socks slid across the dark bamboo flooring. One small slip and he’d be on his ass again. If that happened, he probably wouldn’t get up this time, opioids or no opioids.

The flooring had cost a small fortune; Mark knew because he’d organized the purchase. Will had gone high-end on designing these houses, trying to make them feel like real homes instead of barracks.

And barracks reminded him of Rob.

Damn it, they’d been careful with that construction. He’d gone over and over the scene in his mind, wondering if he’d be dead had Rob not shouted out a warning. It had prompted him to turn, and then instinctively throw himself clear. If Rob had been on the ladder instead of him, Mark would have died and Rob would have been spared. The world would no doubt be better off with a live Rob Thomas, war hero and all-around good guy, instead of a live Mark Calvert, former junkie whose vampire wife wouldn’t get her fangs anywhere near him.

And who’d apparently stepped off the abyss into a deep chasm of pathetic self-pity.

Mark grabbed the edge of a table when his left foot skated a few unplanned inches on the shiny dark wood. Enough already, idiot. Pay attention. By God, this wallowing would not continue. He was even sick of himself. From now on, he’d live in a no-wallow zone if it killed him.

He turned too fast going into the bedroom, twisted the back he’d been trying to hold rigid, and held tight to the door facing for a few seconds, waiting for the pain to settle back into a dull throb.

“Here, let me help.” A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and he closed his eyes at the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. Melissa’s scent. Her warm touch. Her . . . muscles?

“Damn, Mel. When did you get so strong?” She could probably pick him up. And he hadn’t heard her come in. Sneaky vampire.

She took more of his weight than she had to as she eased him toward the bed—just to prove a point, no doubt. “I got that strong when I died, Mark. Because I look the same, you keep thinking I am the same. But vampires are strong, remember?”

“Oh, believe me, I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything.” He turned with more help from her than he wanted, and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Maybe the morphine was doing a better job than he’d thought, because his back felt as if only a match had been set to it and not a blowtorch.

While he gauged his ability to lie down without help—because he’d be damned if she was going to put him to bed like a baby—Ms. Strong and Mighty Vampire stacked pillows against the headboard.

Then she reached for him. “Let me help you—”

“No.” Mark pushed her hands away. “I can do it.” He used his arms to lift himself, slowly pivoting his hips into the middle of the bed and lifting one leg at a time. Finally, he eased back against the pillows. He’d feel a lot prouder of his independence if he weren’t sweating like a pig under a heat lamp. He might also be breathing like a water buffalo after a two-mile stampede. He could probably keep going with the wildlife metaphors if he tried hard enough.

Melissa had watched his slow descent with a deepening frown line between her eyebrows. He knew that look. That particular crease said she had an opinion and wouldn’t rest until she shared it.

“Krys said she gave you a shot of morphine but was worried about giving you too much. She shorted you, didn’t she? It didn’t work.”

“Sure it did. Pain’s not bad at all.” Especially if he kept his teeth clenched.

“Pants on fire.” She smiled when she said it, her hazel eyes lighting up like they used to before all the shit happened. Then they both froze in awkward silence.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire. It had been a silly little game with them. She’d say it, and he’d answer with a suggestive comment on what actually would set his pants on fire, and they’d eventually end up in bed. Maybe they’d tease it out for hours, flirting and verbally sparring, but they always ended up between the sheets.

Whose fault was it that the tease no longer worked? Not his.

No wallowing. Right. Too bad, because he was really good at it.

“Thanks for your help. I’m going to sleep now.” Mark rested his head against the pillows and closed his eyes. Her scent was everywhere, inviting him back into the pity party he’d promised to boycott.

He opened his eyes at the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor. “I thought you left.”

“I’m going to stay until you fall asleep.” Melissa reached across the foot of the bed and tugged off his socks before moving to fiddle with the drawstring of the loose pants Krys had brought to the clinic and helped him climb into. “I’ll help you get undressed. You’ll be more comfortable. You never like sleeping with anything around your legs.”

The idea of her undressing him led to all kinds of mental images. She’d ease the loose pants over his hips, and her arm would brush across his bared skin. He’d inhale the scent of her as she leaned over to tug his shirt over his head. Maybe her beautiful breasts would be within reach of where his mouth . . . would never go again.

Mark closed his eyes and flayed his flaring libido into submission with the only thing he could come up with that was guaranteed to push her away. “I guess it’s time we talked about getting a divorce.”

Melissa stopped fussing with his pants and sat hard on the chair. He’d laugh at her stricken expression if he didn’t feel like crying himself.

She looked at the floor for ten seconds, then twenty. Mark knew because he was counting, waiting for the eruption of glee or horror or acceptance—some kind of reaction. He honestly wasn’t sure what to expect, but he steeled himself. If she was going to look relieved that he was moving aside for her to be with that pompous British shrink, he wouldn’t want to show how much it hurt.

No wallowing.

“Mark, you can’t mean that.” When she finally looked up at him, one of the tears that had pooled in her hazel eyes spilled down her cheek.

Yes
. Something fierce and gleeful unfurled in his gut, something that whispered
she still loves you
in his mind before he slammed that mental door shut. He wasn’t rolling over that easily. “How is Cage, by the way?”

Melissa’s posture stiffened, and she wiped away the telltale tear. “This isn’t about Cage. It’s about—”

“Stop it.” Oh, hell no. She wasn’t going to start spouting that crap about special vampire chemistry and mating bonds and how her heart didn’t remember him. He’d seen that look on her face at the mention of divorce. She loved him. Her mind might not acknowledge it, but her heart remembered.

“But you just don’t understand. I’m not—”

“I understand plenty, Mel. I understand that you’re a vampire. I understand things have changed for you.” Mark shifted on his pillows, ignoring the threatening shard of heat that shot into his hip. “I understand that you want Cage Reynolds to keep you warm at night while I hang around in the wings hoping for a crumb of kindness or a shred of attention.”

He paused briefly at the stricken look on her face, the wide eyes, the hurt. But he’d held it in too long, and once he’d begun, he had to finish. “But I’m done with the drama, Mel. I can’t do it anymore. I love you, but I won’t beg you to love me back. You want your vampire version of Dr. Phil? Go for it. Be happy. I don’t have to watch it.”

He should feel better now that he’d said his piece, but the way her knuckles had turned white as they twisted in her lap, the slight quiver of her lips, the way she swallowed hard to audibly bury her grief—all it did was make him feel like he’d kicked his dog. Or stuck a knife in the woman he loved, and then twisted it hard.

Mark closed his eyes again, suddenly drained. Whatever burst of energy had fueled his rant, it was spent. “Just go, Mel. I can’t do this anymore tonight.”

He didn’t open his eyes when the bed dipped to his right, or when her hand came to rest on his.

“You’ve changed.” Her fingers twined with his, and damned if they didn’t feel as if that’s where they should be. “Have you met someone else?”

Huh?
Mark opened his eyes and searched Melissa’s face for some sign that she was joking. But she looked as miserable as he felt, and some spiteful, petty part of him wanted to hurt her just a little more.

“Not really. I’ve been a feeder for Britta Eriksen since we split into the community houses. It’s been . . .” He paused for effect and bit back a smile at the way her eyes narrowed and the vertical “opinion line” etched itself between her brows. “It’s been nice.”

Nice
was a good, utilitarian, all-purpose word. It could mean nice like a sister, which was an accurate description of his relationship with Britta. Or it could mean nice like a man and a woman engaging in a meaningful bit of blood-fueled foreplay.

“Nice.” Melissa frowned harder, and Mark’s inner demon-child danced again. She might not admit it, but she was jealous. “What do you know about that woman?”

Quite a lot, actually. Britta had been in Penton only a month, and he’d been her feeder from the outset. “I know she’s got a great sense of humor and can make me laugh. She likes movies. And she’s sexy.”

“That hair’s dyed, I can tell.” Melissa stood up and pushed the chair back against the wall next to the closet door, looking around the room. Her gaze paused on each piece of furniture as if it might reveal secrets about what went on here when he and Britta were alone. If his dresser could talk, the tales it’d tell would be boring as hell.