Undead and Undermined

Chapter TEN



I caught Sinclair’s eye and tipped my head to the left, indicating another hallway. Before things went even thirty seconds further, I had to talk to my husband.

“Tina, if you please.”

“Of course.”

“Garrett—”

“Yes, King Sinclair.”

King Sink Lair. Hee! It wasn’t the time or place (it so rarely was) but I couldn’t swallow my giggle. There was an annoying amount of my king and Your Majesty and dread king, but I didn’t think anyone had ever used King Sinclair in my hearing.

“I shall not even ask why you found that amusing,” he sighed as we stepped into the darkened hallway. “Are you well, my own? Not hurt, yes?”

“Not hurt, no. Okay. Real quick, because I don’t like being out of the sight line of that crazy f*ck . . . one of the skatey-eight zillion things I haven’t had a chance to tell you about Laura and Betsy’s Time Travel Follies is that we went to the future, too, a thousand years in the future, and in that future Ancient Betsy tortured Marc for decades and drove him insane.”

Sinclair’s composure, as much a part of him as his Cole Haan loafers and big dick, slipped, and he stared at me with wide eyes and a shocked expression.

And I was ashamed . . . more than I had ever been in my life. Ashamed that I was capable of that, that I could grow into someone who could/would do that to Marc. And ashamed that, now, Sinclair knew, too. He wouldn’t be the last person I told, either . . . I’d have to warn everyone. I’d have to let my friends and family know about the awful thing I hadn’t done yet. Just when I thought their opinion of me couldn’t plummet further . . .

“I-I thought you should know.” I shook my head and stared at the floor. It was very hard to look my husband in the eyes just now. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

“No. I imagine you didn’t.” He put a finger beneath my chin and raised my head. “Do you know, I haven’t been afraid of anyone until you cured Jessica’s cancer? After my twin was murdered, I feared nothing. I felt nothing. Now the only thing I fear is you. I shall pause so you can make a sarcastic observation.”

“And a smoothie made with frozen, not fresh, strawberries! And having someone fill up your Jaguar with regular unleaded, not premium!” It nearly burst out of me. He knew me so well. “You’re afraid of lots of things.”

“Yes, thank you for comparing my fear to petrol. I don’t mind, you know.”

I was getting that surreal am-I-drunk-or-just-weirded-out feeling. “Don’t mind what?”

“Being afraid of you. Well. I mind, but it doesn’t prey on me. And the reason it doesn’t—”

“Maybe we should be getting back in there with Marc and the Marc Thing and the others.” How long had we been yakking in this secluded hall, anyway? Time was a-wastin’.

“—is because I love you more than I fear you.”

“Okay.” That didn’t seem adequate, so I added, “Thanks. I think you’re neat-o, too.”

Sinclair rubbed his forehead with a familiar I’m-getting-a-migraine-and-want-to-shoot-someone expression. “Frightened of an idiot; it is a shameful, shameful day for the House of Sinclair.”

“The House of Sinclair?” I shrieked. Lame! So completely fully utterly laaaaaame! “House of Sinclair! Oh, that’s a riot. What’s our family crest, a cross with the international symbol for No slashed across it? A blender wrought in gold leaf?”

“Thank you as always for your courteous attention and appropriate commentary.” He grabbed my wrist, swung around, and back to the kitchen we went.