No one said anything, which was a real shame. I was hoping to be refuted. Soundly, even.
“This— It’s—” I broke off and shook my head. I couldn’t find the words. Maybe because there weren’t any. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, you guys. I’ve put you all in danger. More so than usual, I mean.” I couldn’t stand their expressions. They were upset, but not with me. They were mad . . . but not at me. They were concerned . . . for me. Concern I knew I didn’t deserve. “I’m very, very sorry.”
I fled.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
I heard the door open and knew it was either Tina or Sinclair, the only ones who could have kept up with me. Probably Sinclair, preparing to explain at length how my idiocy had ruined his (after)life.
The bed dipped as he sat beside me. I was facedown on my pillow in the middle of a half-assed suicide attempt. Even if I needed to breathe, suffocation via pillow would still take too long. Stupid memory foam!
“My father and my sister have teamed up to destroy me,” I said into the foam, which Sinclair probably heard as “Mmm ffmmm sssmmmm hvvv mmmm mm.”
No response, which made sense. He had to be pretty annoyed, and was likely thinking up the best way to explain the depths of my fuckuppery. Constantly blowing Laura off, denying her Hell after she tricked me into taking Hell, threatening to kill her father, constantly questioning her choice of footwear . . . my unsisterly behavior had piled up to endanger every one of us.
I felt it then. Sinclair’s hand on the small of my back, warm(ish) and steady.
I am so sorry, my own, my dearest. You’re worth ten of them.
I perked up a little. “Only ten?” (Which came out, “Nnn ttnn?”)
“A hundred. A thousand. A centillion.”
Damn, that sounded like a lot. I rolled over and blinked up at him. His dear face was creased with concern, but his fist was clenched. He wanted to beat Laura to death as much as he wanted to make me feel better. I could relate.
I took a deep breath, let it out. “I’m sorry. About before.”
“No, the offense is mine. You were correct to be wary of my objectives. I truly have no intention of—er—”
“Glomming on to Hell?”
He quirked an eyebrow at me, dark eyes gleaming. “Yes. But then, I had no intention of falling in love with you, or tolerating our many roommates, or being a pet owner, or participating in the Winter Carnival, and all those things have happened.” He stroked my bangs away from my face. “To my unending delight.”
I sighed and snuggled into his palm.
“All that to say,” he continued, “I may not have intended to take over Hell, but perhaps it would have come to pass regardless of my intent and your wishes. It’s— You’re so young and sweet. You have too many burdens as it is. I want to relieve you of them, but perhaps that isn’t my place.”
I made a mighty effort and didn’t snort at “young and sweet.” Wrong on both counts, pal. And for one of the few times in our marriage, I felt every year of the age gap between us. He thought I was a spoiled child and I thought he was a controlling chauvinist, and sometimes we were at least partially right about each other.
“The thing about Hell.” I reached out and caught his other hand, linking our fingers. “It’s not just me trying to prove something to myself, that I can do this thing on my own. Well, on my own with a committee. Every suggestion you’ve made has been a good idea and I’ve implemented almost all of them. No,” I rushed ahead as he opened his mouth, “I am not implementing a Black Labrador Appreciation Day in Hell; you’ve just got to accept that. Fur and Burr aren’t going anywhere near Hell.”
“Of course not,” he said, offended. “Labs we don’t love would go to Hell.”
“You’re a monster!” I almost shouted, then got a grip. “Anyway. It’s not happening. But the thing about Hell, the real reason I don’t want you down there, so to speak . . .”
“Yes?” His face was calm, he was stroking my cheek, but his gaze was riveted to mine and I could see the tense line of his shoulders. He was expecting something bratty or hateful or both. Was bracing himself for it. Was telling himself it was my choice, not his! Christ, I did not deserve this man.
“It’s turning Father Markus mean,” I said in a small voice.
His eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“He’s getting mean. I think it’s being there—I think Hell’s corrupting him. Maybe even being on the committee is corrupting him; I’ll have to watch the others. How would I be able to tell if Hell made the Ant a bitch? She was already a bitch when she got there. So was I.”