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Allegiance(26)

By:Susannah Sandlin


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.