Meg Cabot - Insatiable

Alaric frowned. He could think of nothing worse than having to sit in the office of some talking head, discussing his feelings.

But if it meant seeing more of Meena Harper…

“Fine,” Alaric said from between gritted teeth.

“Excellent. That’s what I like to hear. You really shouldn’t be so resistant to these policies, Alaric, they’re in place for your benefit. Though this doesn’t mean, of course, that I’m not going to be watching how you conduct yourself around Miss Harper closely. Although,” Holtzman added, “she hasn’t said yet whether or not she’s going to take the job.”

Alaric nearly bolted from the bed in surprise, even though he was practically attached to it by a complicated assortment of wires. “What?” he burst out. “Why the hell not? Didn’t you offer her-”

“Oh, calm down,” Holtzman said sourly. “We offered her a completely adequate package.”

“Adequate?” Alaric wanted to throw something. But the only thing near enough was the television remote. He’d thrown that so many times already, the nurses had threatened not to bring it back if he threw it once more. “She’s-”

“She’s a psychic,” Abraham reminded him. “It’s not like she’d be out there risking her life in the field. The package we offered was reflective of that. It includes full benefits and is actually very generous, if you ask me. I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t take it, especially in this job market. Who wouldn’t want to come work for the Palatine?”

“Someone,” Alaric said, a little bitterly, from his hospital bed, “who’s in love with the prince of darkness.”

Now, just remembering the conversation with Holtzman, he wanted to throw something all over again.

At least until Meena Harper herself surprised him by walking into his hospital room.

And him wearing a hospital gown. This was just perfect.

“Hello,” she said. Her left arm was in an air cast from elbow to wrist. In her right hand, she carried a vase filled with daisies.

Alaric had never given much thought to flowers before. In fact, he’d always thought flowers were stupid.

Until now. Now daisies were his favorite.

“Hello,” he said.

Except for the air cast, Meena Harper looked good. He would have gone so far as to say that Meena Harper looked great. The bite mark on her neck was almost completely faded. She had on some new clothes-well, of course. Because the last time he’d seen her, she’d been covered in blood.

His blood.

She was wearing a dress. It was short and black, and a little tight in the chest.

He liked it very much.

She put the daisies on the windowsill. It was raining outside, and the flowers brightened up the room a little.

Which was a miracle. He hadn’t thought anything could brighten up that hospital room.

But now he knew. Daisies could. Daisies, and Meena Harper.

“I was just here visiting my friend Leisha,” she said, sitting down in the pink vinyl chair by his bed. Pink! Vinyl. The chair was a disaster. Except when Meena Harper sat down in it while wearing the short black dress. Because then he could see a lot of her bare legs. So, perhaps the chair was not such a disaster after all. “She had a baby girl. It’s a little premature, but they’re both going to be fine. Leisha’s so happy. She doesn’t seem to remember what happened at the church. Or outside my apartment. Adam says not to tell her. He thinks it’s for the best.”

“He’s probably right,” Alaric said, carefully.

“True,” she said, with a shrug. “Adam says he wishes he could forget it. He and Jon are installing the baby room right now. Otherwise, the baby will have to sleep in a drawer.”

“Oh,” Alaric said. He didn’t know anything about babies. Except Martin’s daughter, Simone, who had been a baby once. Alaric had thought Martin was crazy for wanting a baby. He tried to sound supportive, though, just like he had around Martin, because he knew that’s how people were supposed to be about babies. “That’s good.”

“They’re calling her Joan,” Meena said. “Joanie.” She was looking all around the room…everywhere but at Alaric.

This, he decided, was definitely awkward.

Especially because, like Meena’s friend Leisha, Alaric didn’t remember what had happened at the church, either. At least, not everything. He knew he’d said some things to her when the two of them had been alone together after the choir loft had collapsed.

He just couldn’t remember what those things had been.

This, a doctor had told him when he’d asked her about it, was not unusual. It was because of the blood loss, she’d said. He needn’t worry about it.

But Alaric did worry about it. What had he said?

He hoped he hadn’t blurted out anything inappropriate. Such as his feelings for Meena Harper. That wouldn’t be good at all. He didn’t need her knowing how he felt about her. Not if she was going to come work with him at the Palatine. How was that going to work? How was he going to be able to work his subtle Alaric Wulf magic on her if she already knew how he felt about her?

Then the magic wouldn’t be subtle at all. It would be the furthest thing from subtle.

And then the magic wouldn’t work. He was already competing with the prince of darkness. What the hell else did he have but his special Alaric Wulf magic?

But maybe he hadn’t said anything about liking her.

He could, of course, just ask her what he’d said.

But then it would sound like he was worried. And he wasn’t worried. He was just…a little concerned.

That was all.

“Joan is a nice name,” Alaric said. Then he felt stupid.

“It was my suggestion,” Meena said. “After Joan of Arc.” Finally, she looked him in the face. For some reason, she’d seemed reluctant before to do so. “That’s a saint.”

He said flatly, “I’ve heard of her. She was burned at the stake as a witch. I went to school, you know. I’m not a complete imbecile.”

His concern over what he might or might not have said while he was delusional with blood loss was making him act a little defensive, maybe.

Meena’s mouth tightened as she studied him. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

Clearly, the doctor was right. He needed to relax about the amnesia thing.

He spread open both his hands palm wide. “I’m in the hospital. All I’m fighting is an infection. Which you apparently gave me, with your unclean hands.”

She smiled a little. “I know. I heard. I’m sorry about that. I was trying to save your life, you know. The way you’re always saving mine. Apparently, we both have hero complexes.”

“They say it’s a miracle they were able to save my leg, after the way you butchered it,” he lied. There, that was better. The old Alaric Wulf magic was back.

She stopped smiling and looked distressed. “Oh, really? I thought I did it right. I’m sorry. That’s how they said to do it when I researched it while I was writing about it for the show. I really was trying to keep you from bleeding to death.”

He was getting the distinct impression from her that he had not, in fact, blurted out his undying devotion to her while they’d been trapped behind all that rubble and he’d lain there bleeding to death.

This was a relief.

Or was it? “It’s amazing,” Alaric said, leaning back against his horrible, flat hospital pillow, “the lengths you were willing to go to in order to keep me from dying.”

“What?” She shook her head. “No. Just a tourniquet. That’s all. And apparently, that nearly killed you. I guess you’re not as big a he-man as you’d like everyone to think you are.”

“And yet,” he said, spreading his hands wide again, “you’re here with me, and not off somewhere hiding from us Palatine with Lucien Antonescu.”