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“It was pretty bad.”
I hesitated to ask for details, thinking she wouldn’t want to relive it. But I’d have to face Ethan and needed to know what I’d be walking into.
“What can you tell me?” I asked her.
She fisted the washcloth in her hands, squeezing it rhythmically. “I don’t know details. Just general feelings—fear. Loss. They want to see if he can work through it. How he deals with it. If he can be manipulated by it—if someone can use his love against him.” Her eyes widened as if she’d just remembered something, and when she looked at me, her gaze skittered down to my belly.
“You’re going to—you and he are—”
“Not yet,” I said. “Sometime in the future. Not yet. Not now.”
She just blinked, head shaking as she tried to process the possibilities. “Sometime is soon enough. Jesus, Merit. That’s huge. Do you know how big that is? What an historic achievement that is?”
“My getting laid isn’t an historic achievement.” I knew that was not what she’d meant, but I’d meant to put a smile on her face, and I incrementally relaxed when her lip curled, just a bit.
“I didn’t mean that. But a child . . . My God. How did you find out?”
“Gabriel had a prophecy, a vision. But that’s all it is—it’s not a guarantee, so please don’t mention it to anyone else. No one else knows. You can’t even tell Luc.”
She nodded. “Okay, okay.”
Then she closed her eyes again, shuddered.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” She opened her eyes, smiled. “He passed.” Her smile blossomed. “I can feel his relief.”
Fear loosened its hold on my heart, just a bit. “Thank God.”
She chuckled. “You’re not showing a lot of confidence in your Master and lover.”
“I was worried. Not because I didn’t think he could handle it, but because we aren’t exactly in a good place right now,” I confessed. “I didn’t want us—where we are—to make it harder for him.”
Lindsey smiled softly. “He didn’t make it in spite of you, Merit. He passed it because of you. Because that’s who you are to him. You may not feel it—not right now—but he’s changed. He is happy because of you.”
Tears blossomed. “Not always.”
“Of course not always. I’m sure you’re a righteous pain in the ass at times. But most times, he’s happy. Ethan is a man of a type: strong, powerful, honorable. But he has always held himself back from the rest of his vampires. Partly because he’s a Master, sure, but partly because he didn’t quite fit. With you, he fits. He’s no longer alone. He’s part of a pair, and that’s a really good thing.”
I knuckled away the escaping tear. “Thanks for that.”
“Of course. You were going to clean up my barf. We’ve had a whole new level of bonding tonight.”
I grinned, pulled on my boots. “I’m going to go downstairs. You’ll be all right?”
She nodded. “I’ll be fine. Want a shower. A skin-blistering shower and maybe three liters of blood. Send Luc up when you can?”
I picked up my katana, headed for the door. “Of course.”
“Merit,” she said, and I glanced back. “Thank you for staying with me. For being here for me.”
“You’re welcome. But it would have been more fun if you’d barfed on the Yankees.”
* * *
The House was still quiet but seemed to be coming back to life. Doors were opening, vampires peeking out into the hallway.
“They’re done,” I told them. “He passed.”
Their relief was palpable.
I jogged down the stairs but found the training room door still shut. Luc emerged from the Ops Room, put up a hand.
“Give him a minute, Sentinel. He’ll need to get his bearings first.”
I didn’t want to wait but knew he was right.
“Lindsey?”
“She’s okay. It was rough, but she made it through. No barfing. She’s waiting on you, when you’re ready.”
I looked back at the closed door, then Luc. “What should I do?”
“Why don’t you go back upstairs? Maybe grab him some blood, some food, a shot or two of the oldest Scotch you can find?”
Now, that was a plan I could execute.
* * *
I found Margot at a prep station rhythmically chopping celery—and at a speed considerably slower than I’d seen from her before.
“It looks like you made it through,” I said.
She turned tired eyes on me. “Strong psych. I’m exhausted, and the rest of the team’s pretty wiped out, too. I sent them to their rooms during. No one needed knives in hand while that emotional tornado was swirling.” She gestured toward a giant stockpot. “I hope you like chicken soup.”
“That seems like just the thing.”
“Have you seen him yet? Is he okay?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. He’s—well, emotionally debriefing, I guess.” I glanced around. “I thought I’d take him a tray.”
“A good idea. We always have things. And speaking of—don’t you owe him a dinner?”
She was right; I hadn’t had a chance to make good on our race bet. “Unfortunately. And it will probably be French. And fancy. And require a knife.”
“He does like French,” she agreed, pulling a silver tray with handles from a tall wire shelf. “But because he likes classic preparations, not because he likes fancy. You know, I tried modernist cuisine on him once. Chicago’s a hotbed of it, and I spent a little time with a certain very popular chef . . .” She wiggled her eyebrows, waiting for me to guess. Unfortunately, my knowledge of the Chicago food scene ran to deep-dish and Italian beef, not fancy.
“Oh, no kidding? Did a little tutoring, did he?”
“Lots of tutoring,” she said, opening a glass-doored refrigerator and pulling out two bottles of Blood4You. She lined them up on the tray along with a glass and a napkin, then put a small basket of croissants beside it.
“Anyway, I gave Ethan a really nice petite filet with some foams—parsnip and beet, I think. He was not impressed. Kept asking why I’d served him bubble bath for dinner.”
It was nice to know there were limits to even Ethan’s pretentions.
“Comfort food, comfort food,” Margot said, tapping her chin as she returned to the refrigerator. “Ah,” she said, diving inside. She pulled out two ramekins. “Crème brûlée. I presume your objection to French doesn’t include custard.”
