Bride

She’s not like he imagined. He won’t admit to picturing how she’d be while he was growing up, but there was always something in the back of his head, a faint hope that maybe, one day.

She’s not like he imagined. She’s more, in every possible way.

Emery Messner is petrifying. Mostly because she looks really nice.

I expected unhinged, rabid-looking, bloodthirsty greetings. Unpredictability. Threats of violence. What I find is a sweet woman in her fifties, wearing a Hope Love Courage pin on her cardigan. I’m no great judge of character, but she seems kind, and friendly, and sincerely personable. Her heartbeat is faint, almost reticent. I could picture her baking peanut-free treats to pass around after her children’s soccer practice, but not abducting and murdering people.

“Lowe.” She stops a few feet away from us, hanging her head in salute. When she looks up, her nostrils twitch, undoubtedly smelling what happened between me and Lowe on the plane.

I want to disappear into the ether.

“Welcome to you and your Vampyre bride.” She faces my husband. Who killed her mate. This is so messed up. “Congratulations on your alliance.”

“Emery.” He does not smile. “Thank you for welcoming us to your home.”

“Nonsense. This is your territory, Alpha.” She waves a hand like a gal at brunch. Her eyes flicker back to me, and for a fraction of a second the polite facade crumbles, and I see myself reflected in her eyes.

I’m a Vampyre.

I’m the enemy.

In the current century, my people have been among the top five causes of death for her people. I’m as welcome as a piece of gum stuck under the sole of her pumps.

However, I’m Lowe’s gum, and he’s making it abundantly clear: his hand lingers possessively on the curve of my lower back, and I know enough about self-defense to understand that he positioned himself strategically, and that he plans to shove me behind himself at the slightest sign of intimidation. There’s no way Emery’s guards—all eight of them, evenly split between wolf and Human form—cannot see that. Judging from their tense expressions, they seem to believe that Lowe offers a considerable threat, even this starkly outnumbered.

As his fake wife, I find it flattering.

But Lowe was right, and Emery doesn’t want a fight, at least not now. She forces a strained smile just for me. “Misery Lark.” Her voice oozes civility. “I haven’t seen any of your people in my territory in decades.”

Not alive, for sure. “Thank you for having me.”

“Perhaps it’s time to bury the hatchet. Perhaps new alliances can be formed, now that the old ones are burning to ashes.”

“Perhaps.” I bite the Seems unlikely, though, off my tongue.

“Very well.” Her eyes flicker to my hand. Because, I abruptly realize, Lowe wrapped his own around it. “Follow me, if you please.” She turns her back to us with one last smile. Her guard trickles behind her, flanking her like an armor made of flesh.

Lowe’s fingers squeeze mine. “That was civil of you,” he says under his breath. “Thank you for not causing a diplomatic incident.”

“As if.”

His eyebrows quirk.

“Come on. I wouldn’t.”

The look he gives me telegraphs: You absolutely would.

“I’m not going to piss off the lady who tried to kidnap Ana,” I say, outraged. Then clarify, “I might stab her. But I’m not going to sass her.”

His mouth twitches. “There you are.”

He tugs me toward a black sedan, his hand still holding on to mine.

Dinner is a weird affair, not in the least because I’m served a plate of cavatelli and a glass of red wine that looks enticingly like blood.

It’s standard for the mate and children of the former Alpha to maintain formal relationships with the current leadership, and several Weres have been invited for the weekend. Tonight, though, it’s just the three of us at the table, and I’m too clueless regarding Were affairs to participate in the conversation. I try to follow as they talk about borders, alliances, other packs, but it’s like starting a triple-timeline TV show from season four. Too many plot points, characters, world-building details. What I can do is appreciate the complex dynamics at play during the meal, and the expert way Lowe navigates them. No one mentions that he killed Roscoe, and I’m grateful for that.

We’re escorted to our room early in the morning. There is one bed, which will luckily not lead to any weird sharing situation, because I’ll disappear into the closet the second the sun is up. I gesture at Lowe to sit and lift a finger to my lips. He gives me a confused look but complies without argument, even as I reach for his jeans pocket and take out his phone. For an Alpha, he’s surprisingly good at doing as I say.

I spend several minutes sweeping the place for bugs and cameras, and checking for strong Wi-Fi networks under Lowe’s increasingly amused gaze. When I find none, I catch his pitiful must-be-hard-to-live-subsumed-by-this-level-of-paranoia look, and I’m tempted to scrape a lint ball from my pocket and tell him that it’s state-of-the-art spyware, just to be right for once.

He probably wouldn’t know better.

“Can I speak? Or would you like to espionage more?”

I glare. “Your golden boy Alex told me to do this.”

He shakes his head with a small smile. “Emery knows better.”

“So we’re not going to entertain the possibility that she’s going to slit our throats in our sleep?”

“For the time being.”

“Hmm.” I go through his phone to make sure it’s not being tracked. It’s an interesting, vaguely wistful window into Lowe’s life. Not that I expected to find it chock-full of MILF porn, but his most visited websites are European sports news and fancy architectural magazines that look as entertaining as a traffic jam.

“Sorry your baseball team is doing so poorly,” I offer.

“It’s doing fine,” he mutters, offended.

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“And it’s rugby.” He stands to retrieve my blood cooler.

“Anyway. Emery doesn’t seem that bad.”

“No, she doesn’t.” Lowe opens the cooler, and then the secret compartment where we stowed the tools Alex gave me. “Mick has been collecting intel on the attacks and sabotages in Were territory, and it overwhelmingly suggests that she’s behind them. But she also knows that if she were to openly challenge me, she wouldn’t stand a chance. And it’s possible that several of the Loyals aren’t even aware of the kidnapping attempt. They might not know they’re on the bad side of this war.”

I stand by him, checking that all the equipment is accounted for. “Father used to say that there are no good or bad sides in a war.”

Lowe chews on his lower lip, pensively staring at the bags of blood. “Maybe. But there are sides I want to be part of, and others that I do not.” He looks up, pale eyes just inches from mine. “Do you need to feed?”

“I can do it in the bathroom, since we’re sharing this”—I glance around at the flowery wallpaper, canopy bed, landscape-based art—“marriage chamber.”

“Why would you use the bathroom?”

“I’m assuming you’ll find it gross?” Serena always said that there’s something repulsive about hearing blood being swallowed, though she eventually got used to it. I get it: I might be a (shamefully enthusiastic) peanut butter consumer, but I find most human foods gag-worthy. Anything that requires chewing should be launched into space via a self-destroying capsule.

“I doubt I’ll care,” Lowe says, and I shrug. I won’t babyproof his environment. He’s a big boy who knows what he can take.

“Okay.”

I grab the bag and make quick work of it. Blood is too expensive—and too hard to clean up—to risk spillage, which is why I use straws. The process takes less than two minutes, and by the time I’m done, I’m smiling to myself, thinking of the three-hour dinner I’ve just been subjected to and feeling superior.

Weres and Humans are weird.

“Misery.”

Lowe’s voice is gravelly. I dispose of the bag, and when I glance at him, he’s sitting on the bed again. I have the impression that his eyes have been on me for the entire time. “Yes?”

“You look different.”

“Oh, yeah.” I turn to the mirror, but I know what he’s seeing. Rosy cheeks. Blown-up pupils with a thin lilac rim. Lips stained with red. “It’s a thing.”

“A thing.”

“Heat and blood, you know?”

“I don’t.”

I shrug. “We get blood-hungry when we’re hot, and we get hot after we feed. It won’t last long.”

He clears his throat. “What else does it entail?”

I’m not sure what to make of this line of questioning on Vampyre physiology, but he was forthcoming when I asked the same about the Weres. “Mostly just that. Some senses are heightened, too.” The scent of Lowe’s blood, but also everything else that makes him him, is sharper in my nostrils. It has me wondering if I still smell like him.

Which has me thinking of what happened earlier.

Not that it was ever far from my mind. “In the plane. When you were marking me.” I expect him to act embarrassed, or dismissive. He just holds my gaze. “Not to make a weird situation even weirder, but it seemed like it was . . .”

“It was.” He briefly closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take advantage.”

“I— Me neither.” I was as much into it as he was. More, probably.

“It’s the act of it. It’s something that usually happens between mates, or in serious romantic relationships. It’s intrinsically sexually charged.”

Oh. “Right.” I’m a bit mortified to have assumed he was attracted to me. Not because I don’t think I’m attractive—I’m hot, and fuck you, Mr. Lumiere, for saying that I looked like a spider—but because Lowe has Gabi. Someone he’s biologically hardwired to focus the entirety of his attraction on.

“I’d never done it before,” he says. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”

Hold up. “You’d never done it? You’d never marked anyone before?”

He shakes his head and starts taking off his boots.

“But you have a mate. You said so.”

He moves to the other shoe. Without looking up. “I also said it’s not always reciprocated.”

“But yours—yours is, right? You said so.” Gabrielle. She’s the Collateral now, but before, they were together. They probably met in Zurich. Ate that cheese with the holes together, all the time.

“Did I?”

I cover my mouth with my palm. “Shit. No.” I stalk across the room to the bed, but once I’m sitting next to Lowe, I have no idea what to do.

What did the governor say at the wedding? That the Were Collateral was his mate. But he never said that they were together. As a matter of fact, no one in the pack ever acted as though Lowe was in a relationship with her. Ana never mentioned Gabi, not even in passing. There were no signs of her in Lowe’s bedroom.

His mate, the governor said, and it makes sense that Lowe would share that, to guarantee that he was handing off a valuable Collateral. But no one ever said that Lowe was her mate.

“Does she know? That she’s your mate, I mean.”

A micropause, and then he shakes his head. As though reaffirming a decision. “She doesn’t. And she won’t.”

“Why won’t you tell her?”

“I won’t burden her with the knowledge.”

“Burden? She’d be into that! You’re basically swearing eternal love to her—and you’re kind of a catch. I used to vet all of Serena’s dating app matches; I’ve seen what’s out there. The pool is shallow. As far as I know, you have zero criminal convictions, a house, a car, a pack, and . . . okay, a wife, but I’m happy to help you clear that out.” I wonder why I’m being so proactive about this. I’m not the kind to want to meddle with other people’s love lives, but . . . maybe it has to do with this heavy feeling deep in my stomach. Maybe I’m just overcompensating my irrational disappointment with enthusiasm. “Honestly, she’ll be stoked.” She’s the current Collateral, she’s probably as perfectly self-immolating as he is, and—something occurs to me. “Is it about your sister? You think she won’t accept Ana?”

He exhales a laugh and goes to put his shoes away. “The opposite. Ana would be delighted, too.” He checks that the door is locked and comes back to bed. “Scooch over,” he orders, pointing at the side of the bed that’s farthest from the entrance.

I obey without hesitating. “What if she feels the same about you?”

“She can’t.”

The mattress dips with his weight. He lies back, still wearing his jeans and shirt. The back of his head sinks into the pillow as he crosses his arms on his chest. The bed is king-size and still a little too short for him, but he doesn’t complain.

“Maybe she doesn’t have the hardware. Maybe she doesn’t feel the same biological pull toward you that you feel toward her. But she could still develop feelings.” I toe my shoes off and kneel next to him. Is he going to sleep? “You could still date her.”

“We’re still talking about this,” he drawls without opening his eyes.

“Yes.”

“What about now?”

“Yup.” No, I’m not going to examine my interest in the topic. “Frankly, it’s a bit childish, this all-or-nothing attitude of yours. You could still have a—”

He props up on his elbow. One second I’m staring at his handsome, relaxed face, the next his eyes burn bright into mine and I can feel his breath, warm over my lips. They still taste faintly like blood.

Something charges between us. Something ready.

“You think that the reason I won’t tell her is that a small part of her wouldn’t be enough?” he growls. “You think that I would care, if she were to love me less than I love her? That this is a matter of pride for me? Of greed? Is that why you think I’m childish?”

I open my mouth. A wave of heat—embarrassment, confusion, something else—slams over my body. “I . . .”

“You think, but you don’t know. You don’t know anything about what it’s like to find your other half,” he continues, voice low and sharp. “I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.”

My heart pounds in my chest, my cheeks, my fingertips. I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“But I won’t take from her.” His eyes leave mine and steadily trail down my face. They stop at the neckline of my dress. Tonight I’m wearing our wedding band as a necklace, and he studies the way it disappears into the curve of my breasts. His gaze lingers, leisurely, for what feels like hours but is probably a brief moment. Then it moves back up. “Above all, I won’t take her freedom. Not when so many others have already done so.”

That aggressive energy between us dissipates as quickly as it formed, melting like salt in water. Slowly, comfortably, with one last glance at my lips, Lowe settles back on the bed. His arms come up to lace behind his skull.

“She wouldn’t admit it—she might not even realize it herself, but she’s the kind of person who would feel beholden to me. She would think I need her. When what I really need is for her to be happy, whether it’s with me, or alone, or with someone else.”

His eyes flutter closed again. I manage to gulp in some air, and I watch his body relax from a tense, angry line, back to soft strength.

I’m utterly ashamed. And other things that I’m unlikely to be able to articulate. My hands are trembling, so I curl my fists into the cotton coverlet. “I’m sorry. I went too far.”

“My feelings are mine to deal with. Not hers.”

I cannot help myself. I lick my lips and say, “It’s just—”

“Misery.”

It’s that tone again. The Alpha one. The one that makes me want to say yes to him, over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, but I think I’m forgiven. I think Lowe is simply too big a person to hold grudges. I think Lowe is too fucking principled for his own good, and doesn’t deserve to have his heart broken, or his life only half full. “Shall I retreat into the closet in shame? So you don’t have to see me?”

His mouth twitches. Definitely forgiven. “I can just turn the other way.”

“Right. Will you have to . . . scent me again? Tomorrow?”

His smile disappears. “No. The message came across. They think you’re important to me now.”

“Okay.” I scratch my temple and do not ruminate over the fact that he said “they think” instead of “they know.” I should get ready for bed. The sun will be up soon. But it’s such a rare opportunity to study Lowe at will. He’s just—so, so handsome, even to me, someone who’s so different, so chronically weird, that I’m rarely afforded the privilege of noticing these things in others. And yet, the more I know him, the more I find him magnetic. Unique. Genuinely decent, in a world where no one seems to be.

And I’m convinced that his mate would agree with me, but I’m not going to belabor the point. Even if I can’t imagine anyone refusing him. Even if I have developed an attraction toward him, and I’m not even his species.

“You can get changed before sleeping. I’m going to keep my hands off you, even if your pj’s have cute little drops of blood on them.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” he murmurs.

I frown. “Is it a Were thing? You only sleep every third day?”

“It’s a me thing.”

I tear my eyes away from his full lips. “Right. The insomnia. When we were teens, Serena was the same.”

“Yeah?”

He hasn’t moved a muscle, but he sounds genuinely interested, so I continue. “She had horrible nightmares she could never remember. Probably something that happened in the first few years of her life—she had no memories of that period at all.”

“And what would she do?”

“She wouldn’t sleep. Would always look exhausted. We were concerned—me and Mrs. Michaels, who was our caregiver at the time, and a nice one at that. We tried white noise machines. Pills. Those red lights that should have facilitated melatonin production but just made the room look like a brothel. Nothing worked. And then we found the solution by chance, and it was the simplest trick.”

“What was it?”

“Me.” Lowe’s body tightens. “What she needed was someone she trusted, next to her. So I’d hang out in her room. And scratch her.”

“Scratch her.” He sounds skeptical.

“No— Yes, but not what you think. It’s just what we called it. Here—” I lift my hand to his forehead, and after a small hesitation, I press my palm to his hair. It’s at once bristly and soft, not long enough to run my fingers through. I caress it a couple of times, letting my nails brush softly against his scalp, just enough to give him an idea of what Serena used to enjoy, and then pull back to—

His hands dart up, lightning fast.

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his fingers close around my wrist with deadly precision. My heart slams into my chest—shit, I’ve overstepped—until he brings the hand back to his head, as though he wants me to . . .

Oh.

Oh.

He doesn’t let go until I resume the scratching. A ball of something swells in my throat. “You’re so much luckier,” I say, hoping a joke will deflate it.

“Why?” he rasps.

“I just fed. It reduces the clammy, mollusk feel Serena had to deal with.”

He doesn’t smile, but his amusement is thick around us. His dark hair is short, so short, and I wonder if he cuts it like that because the upkeep is easier—no need to style it, ever. I think about how much research I put into the best cuts to hide my ears, about the way Serena enjoyed shopping for clothes and makeup that suited her moods. And then imagine Lowe having no time to do any of that. Having no time for himself.

Like Juno said, his entire life is sacrifice. He was asked for so much, and always said yes, yes, yes.

Oh, Lowe. No wonder you can’t sleep.

“You’re not as terrible a husband as you could be,” I say for no particular reason, continuing to caress him. “I’m sorry you had to give up your entire life for your pack.”

This time he’s definitely smiling. “You did the same.”

“What?” I tilt my head. “No.”

“You spent years among the Humans, knowing that if a very flimsy truce was broken, you’d be the first to be killed. Then you spent more years building a life among the Humans—and now here you are, having given that up. Doing stuff for your people, whom you claim to care so little about.”

“Not for them, for Serena.”

“Yeah? Then what’s your plan, after you find her? Run away together? Disappear? Send the alliance between the Vampyres and Weres into chaos?”

It’s not that I haven’t thought that far. I just don’t like to dwell on the answer. “This marriage is just for one year,” I punt.

“Yeah? Misery, I think you should ask yourself something.” He sounds more tired than I’ve ever heard him.

“What is that?”

“If Serena hadn’t disappeared, would you have been able to say no to your father? Or would you have ended up in this marriage anyway?”

I think about it for a long, long time, watching my fingers trace patterns in Lowe’s hair. And when I think I have an answer—a frustrating, depressing answer—I don’t say it out loud.

Because Lowe, who suffers from something that’s definitely not pneumonia, is breathing softly, and has sunk into a tranquil sleep.