Allegiance(25)

Maybe, but Melissa still didn’t like his vibe. “Meet him and see what you think. He left the house a while back, walking down toward the old mill. I don’t know if he’s back yet, so you might have to wait.”

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

Krys 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.