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Most of the country’s vampires lived in twelve Houses scattered from coast to coast: Navarre, McDonald, Cabot, Cadogan, Taylor, Lincoln, Washington, Heart, Lassiter, Grey, Murphy, and Sheridan.
“We need to give you two a couple name,” I said, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Lucsey, perhaps?”
Luc didn’t bat an eyelash; he simply turned a page of the newspaper. “Call us what you want, Sentinel. We already have a name for you.”
“Yes, we do.” Lindsey stirred her spoon noisily around the walls of the yogurt cup to get the remaining drops. “You’re Methan.”
Ethan made a vague sound that suggested we weren’t finished discussing this particular topic, but he wouldn’t push it in front of present company. Also, interesting how I was learning to interpret male clicks and grunts.
He grumbled, but scooted out of bed, confirming that I was, in fact, the power behind the throne.
“You stand for me,” he said. “And I stand for you.”
Ethan stood up and walked toward me, a thousand questions in his eyes. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me now. Do not make me wonder, Merit. Do not make me put our relationship in her hands.”
Ethan’s face went white, and his eyes went huge. He stared at me, and my heart fell to my knees. “You—you . . .” He tried to speak, but he was furious enough that he couldn’t get the words out. “You did what?”
Ethan and I walked side by side down the sidewalk. His body language was clear—we were working together.
Scott looked like a former college athlete—broad shoulders, small waist, and a dark soul patch below his lips. Morgan looked like a male model. His dark, wavy hair now reached his shoulders, but across his handsome face—strong cheekbones, cleft chin, dark blue eyes—was a mask of grief.
Scott had seemed to me to be a forthright, balls-to-the-wall type of guy. Even though he didn’t like hearing harsh truths, maybe part of him appreciated Ethan’s frankness.
“I feel betrayed.” I bit my lip against the sudden onslaught of tears. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
“I will have you. Body, mind, and soul. And I won’t share you with anyone else.”
“About what?” “You,” they simultaneously said. I was completely flabbergasted that two grown men—more than grown, chronologically—would waste their time throwing punches at each other. “And this was the best way you could do it?” “Yes,” they simultaneously answered. I put my hands on my hips and closed my eyes. “This is completely ridiculous, and completely insulting.”
Jeff Christopher. He shook out his arms and legs, then popped his head back and forth as if stretching his neck. He looked up and met my gaze, and in the eyes of this young man—often silly, sometimes costumed, always flirty—I saw a world of understanding and experience and maturity.
