Allegiance(27)

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.”