Morgan smiled sheepishly, an expression that was irritatingly cute on a dark-haired, bedroom-eyed boy. He was in jeans again tonight, this time paired with a smoky blue quarter-sleeved T-shirt that snugged his torso. I noted a hint of gold around his neck, and I guessed it was the medal of Navarre House, similar in style to the one worn by Ethan, but, as last night had shown, symbolizing a very, very different philosophy.
I stared him down, but he met my gaze, one corner of his mouth tipped into a charmingly lopsided smile. “Please?”
I blew out a slow breath that ruffled my bangs, but stood back to let him in. “Come in.”
“Thanks.”
I walked into the living room, assuming he’d follow, dropped onto the couch and crossed my legs. I looked up at him expectantly while he closed the door behind us. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
I waved a hand at the room. “Start genuflecting. Let’s see some knee action.”
“You’re serious.”
I lifted my brows. He responded in kind, but finally nodded his head, then walked between the couches. He dropped to one knee, then held out his hands. “I’m monumentally sorry for the pain and humiliation that I caused you and your—”
“Both knees.”
“Pardon?”
“I’d prefer to see both knees on the ground. I mean, if you’re going to grovel, be the best groveler you can, right?”
Morgan watched me for a moment, mouth twitching, the smile threatening to break, but acquiesced with grave solemnity. He bent both knees to the ground, then looked up at me through those navy blue eyes with an expression that would have worked on a loyal hound. “I’m really sorry.”
I watched him for a moment, let him linger there on the floor, then nodded. “Okay.”
So I wasn’t immune to a cute boy with a sappy expression. Really, what twenty-seven-year-old ex-graduate-student-cum-Cadogan-vampire was?
Morgan rose and dusted off his knees, then took a seat on the love seat behind him. Just as I was wondering why, exactly, he’d decided to play contrite, he offered, “There’s a lot of talk in Navarre about Cadogan. About Houses that drink. There are a lot of vampires with long memories, and a lot of them are affiliated with Navarre. It’s not you personally—it’s more like decades of inbred fear. Fear that everything we’ve worked to build—the House system, the Presidium, the Canon—will be brought down by vamps who drink.”
It was a good argument, and one that I could appreciate, having seen a sample of the punishments doled out to vampires by humans. However, I reminded him, “It was Navarre that held the press conference, Morgan. It was Navarre that announced our existence.”
“It was a precautionary move. Every day that passed without vampires taking the initiative was one day closer to humans doing it for us. Pushing us into the spotlight in a way we couldn’t control. In a way we couldn’t spin. This was about coming out on our terms.”
I stretched my legs out on the couch and rested my head on the armrest. “And do you believe that?”
“It doesn’t especially matter what I believe. I’m Celina’s Second. I act as she wishes. But having said that, yes, I do believe it. The world’s a different place today.”
“You act as she wishes, yet here you are, conversing with the enemy.”
He chuckled. “It seemed worth the minor mutiny.”
“And I wasn’t worth it last night when she was calling us out?”
Morgan sighed, then lifted both hands to run them through his hair. “At the risk of sounding ungrateful for your forgiveness, I already apologized for that.” He let his hands fall and offered me a hopeful look. “Maybe we could talk about something else? Not vampires or drinking. Not alliances or Houses. Just pretend to be normal for a couple of hours?”
I let the smile spread slowly. “How do you feel about the Bears?”
Morgan snorted, then looked down the hallway. “Kitchen down there?”
I nodded.
“Can I get something to eat?”
Had I any interest in dating the boy—had it not evaporated last night when I’d promised never to flirt with another vampire again—I’d have decided this was the lamest second date ever. “I guess.”
He popped up and walked to the threshold. “Thanks.” He disappeared down the hallway, but called back, “I’m a Packer fan. I was born in Madison.”
He was rustling through a drawer when I reached the kitchen. “You have to admit it—Green Bay’s a better team, especially this year. Chicago has problems with its O line, there’s a quarterback issue, and you’ve got no defensive secondary.”
I leaned back against the doorframe and crossed my arms. “You’re going to stand in my kitchen, eating my food, going through my things, and bash my Bears? You’re either brave or stupid.”
Morgan pulled out a knife and cutting board, then moved to a stack of sandwich items he’d already arranged on the countertop—a loaf of nutty bread, mustard, mayo, ham, American cheese, Swiss cheese (an international cheese détente!), smoked turkey, a jar of bread and butter pickle slices, black olives, lettuce, and a tomato.
In other words, the contents of our refrigerator but for the sodas and blood.
Then he grabbed two cans of soda. He popped the tab on one, and offered the other to me as he sipped, one hip cocked against the cabinets.
“Thoughtful of you to offer,” I drily said, accepting the soda as I joined him at the counter. “Don’t they feed you at Navarre House?”
He cut off two healthy slices of bread, then went to work on the tomato, slicing as he talked. “They throw out some gruel between the indoctrination sessions and propaganda films. Then we’re off for a good marching around the grounds and the recitation of sonnets to Celina’s loveliness.”
I chuckled and tore off a couple of lettuce leaves, then held them up for his approval. He nodded, then began the very careful process of layering meats, cheeses, vegetables, and condiments on his Dagwood.
“They put out healthy stuff in the cafeteria—I just don’t usually have a chance to make a sandwich my own way, you know?”
Having grown up with too much brie and foie gras and too few processed carbs, I knew very well. That was why I stopped him before he added the final piece of bread. I grabbed the bag of tortilla chips from the other end of the counter and handed them to him.
“Layer of chips,” I solemnly explained. “Adds a good crunch.”
“Genius,” he said, then squished a layer of tortilla chips into his sandwich. We both looked down at it for a moment, four vertical inches of deliciousness.
“Should we take a picture?”
“It’s pretty damn impressive.”
He cocked his head at it. “I almost hate to ruin it by biting in, but I’m starving, so. . . .” Regrets spoken, he picked it up with two hands and bit in. His eyes closed as he crunched through the first bite. “That’s a damn good sandwich.”
“Told you,” I said, leaning against the counter and pulling the bag of chips toward me.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said between bites.
The bag crinkled noisily as I reached for a chip. “What do you want to know?”
“Origins. Interests. Why the daughter of one of the most powerful men in Chicago decided to become a vampire.”