Bride

She is resilient. He tries to imagine how he’d feel if he were in her position—alone, removed, used, and discarded. He has nothing but reluctant respect for her, and that angers him.

Unlike Max’s grip, Lowe’s doesn’t hurt.

It’s tight, though. And the way he presses me against the wall, like he’s trying to put his big body between me and the rest of the world, makes it difficult to breathe in without plastering my entire front to his.

“Miss Lark,” he says. Hoarse. A growl, nearly.

I swallow against the sudden drought in my throat, which makes me realize where his hand is: wrapped around my neck. Almost entirely. His fingers are so long, they touch the valleys behind my ears.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, low and deep. Those offbeat eyes of his bore into mine. My heartbeat, which remained miraculously steady during my scuffle with Max, suddenly pounds louder—then whisks into slow flutters when Lowe lowers his head to murmur against my temple, “We haven’t even been married for twenty-four hours. Praying mantises have longer honeymoon periods.”

Max, I could take, fairly easily. Lowe, no way. It’s the difference between a puppy and a dire wolf.

“Just, you know.” My words sound wobbly. I’m not proud of that. “Trying to avoid getting killed.”

Lowe stiffens for a millisecond, then pushes away. But he sticks close, palms flat against the wall on each side of my head—one still bandaged from yesterday’s wound. It feels like a cage. A makeshift prison that he’s building, made of his body and his glare, to keep me pinned in place as he turns around to ask Max, “You okay?”

Max looks up and nods, lips trembling. By now there are several Weres gathered around him. Alex, who glances between Lowe and me with an expression so guilty he’d probably admit to mortgage fraud if pressed ever so slightly. But also Juno, thoroughly inspecting Max for any mortal wounds I might have inflicted, and the older man and the ginger from the ceremony, who stare at me as though I just told the orphanage kids that Santa isn’t real.

Everyone in this hallway looks very ready to shatter my kneecaps, maybe eat the marrow after. Which, nope.

“Excuse me.” I try to dip out of Lowe’s cage to leave. He lowers one arm, locking me in more tightly.

“What happened?” he asks me.

Juno beats me to the answer. “She was about to drink him dry. We all saw it.” She runs a hand over Max’s clammy forehead. He looks briefly adrift, and then stammers out,

“Sh-she was on me. Before I could do anything about it. And . . .” He bends his head, as if lost for words.

Every pair of eyes in the room turns to me. “Oh, come on,” I snort.

“Her fangs were so close,” he whispers feebly, and now I’m getting annoyed. Clearly method acting is his passion, but he did try to assault me.

“Yeah, okay.” I roll my eyes. “Please, leave me out of your erotomaniacal delusions—”

“Have a doctor check Max,” Lowe barks, and then his hand closes around my wrist, at once gentle and unyielding. It happens so fast, I nearly lose my balance. Before I know it, I’m scrambling to keep up with his longer legs as he drags me inside his office.

I immediately look around. I am worried about what he’s going to do with me, but this is a great opportunity. He didn’t use a key, which means that he must have some kind of smart lock—

“What happened?” Lowe asks. He let go of me, but still stands way too close, when there’s plenty of space in the room to not crowd me. It’s giving me flashbacks to our wedding, and this time I’m not even wearing heels, which means that he gets to loom over me in a way almost no one ever does.

The door opens suddenly. Juno enters, but Lowe’s eyes stay on me.

“Misery,” he growls, “how about you fucking answer me, for once?”

“Max came over, saw me, decided to indulge in some light afternoon murder.” I shrug. “That, I’m used to. It’s the subsequent lying that—”

“Bullshit,” Juno says.

I turn to her. “I’m not asking you to believe me. But reason it out—why would I attack a Were, on my first day in your territory, when the consequences would be my death at best, and full-on war between the Weres and the Vampyres at worst?”

“I think you can’t help yourself. I think you saw him, and you wanted to feed, and you—”

“—and I was too lazy to stop by the blood-dedicated fridge fifty feet away?” I step in front of her, forgetting all about Lowe. “That’s not how feeding works. Let’s just acknowledge that we know nothing about each other’s species. Max came in, started telling me about how a bunch of people I share some distant DNA with killed his family, that Lowe’s a traitor for marrying me, and then he . . . what?”

Juno isn’t listening to me anymore. Her eyes meet Lowe’s. A whole conversation passes between them in a split second.

Then she looks back at me. Furious. “If you are trying to imply that Max is working with the Loyals—”

“I’m not. Because I have no idea what the Loyals are.”

“Max is not a Loyal.”

“Sure. He’s not a brook trout, either. I’m not making any ontological claims on him, but he did attack me.”

“You are”—she takes an angry step closer—“a liar.”

“Leave us.” Lowe’s sharp voice reminds us that we’re not alone in the room. We turn at once. And we’re equally shocked to see that he’s addressing Juno.

“She’s lying,” Juno insists. It’s getting a little ridiculous, the way she points at me like I’m a mugger who yanked her purse away. “You should punish her.”

I snort out a laugh. “Yes, Lowe. Spank me and take away my TV privileges.”

“You blade-eared leech.”

“Juno. Out.”

However the hierarchy works among the Weres, it must be strict. Because Juno clearly wants to stay and ground me with her claws, but she dips her head once in something akin to a salute, and then murmurs a soft “Alpha,” before stalking out of the office.

It feels like respite, the door closing behind her, the blessed quiet. Until Lowe moves closer, and I suddenly mourn not having a third person in the room. The bad, as it turns out, is still better than the worse.

“Misery,” he says. There is reproach in his voice, and a bit of a rough edge, and the tone of someone who has lots of problems keeping him busy, and is used to solving most of them with a look and maybe a tiny threat of violence.

We regard each other, just me and him, and yes, I feel it loud in my blood: we’re alone. For the first time—though not of many to come. I doubt Lowe was planning to spend quality time with me ever again after yesterday.

Aside from a layer of stubble, he looks like he did at the ceremony, his harsh face all structure. Clearly, as my makeup artist was painting the Sistine Chapel redux, his found nothing to improve on. I notice his eyes dip to my collarbone, where a faint shadow of the forest-green markings still lingers behind the riot of waves left over from the braids. Once again, that muscle in his jaw jumps, pupils get fat all of a sudden.

This situation is a problem. The Collateral is supposed to be a nonplayable character in a video game. For the next year, I need to be invisible, unobtrusive as I search for Serena. Not the kind of nuisance who gets caught murdering a young Were.

God, I bet they call them pups.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” I ask.

He blinks, like he forgot we were in the middle of a conversation. He clears his throat, but his voice stays gravelly. “Believe what?”

“That I didn’t attack Max.”

He presses his full lips together. “You were showing him your fangs.”

“You jealous?” I bat my eyes at him, not sure where this recklessness comes from. I don’t think I want to provoke him. “Wanna see them?”

His eyes rocket down to my lips and stay for a beat too long. It’s almost funny, how repulsive Weres find our teeth. “What I am is worried that my Vampyre wife will get herself killed. I’d have to bury her corpse in the raised bed under the plumbago, and the next batch will sprout ugly.”

I gasp theatrically. “Not the plumbago.”

“They are my sister’s favorite.”

“And she is very cute.”

He abruptly leans so close, I feel his breath on my lips. “Is this a threat?”

“No.” I frown, bewildered. “No.” I let out a choked laugh. “There was no ‘would be a shame if something happened to her’ implied. Despite the fan fiction Max and Juno have been writing about me, I do not usually plot the demise of children.” I think about my conversation with Alex. Who’s probably off somewhere biting his cuticles to little stumps. “Plus, you’re the one who decided I should be living here.”

His eyebrow lifts. “I’m sure you have some excellent advice on where else I should house the daughter of the most powerful Vampyre in the council, who’s apparently a fearsome fighter in her own right.”

“Fearsome?” I’m . . . flattered?

“For a non-Were,” he adds, a tad begrudgingly, like he regrets the compliment. I bet this man thrives on grudges. He has a questionable temperament, stern and autocratic, and I’ve always thought of myself as too much of a survivor to be in any way mouthy, but here I am. Nettlesome.

“Still. It feels like committing to the bit a little too much, giving me the bedroom next to yours.”

“I’ll decide what’s too much.” He’s condescending. And inflexible. A dick, probably.

“By all means, then, let’s embrace tradition. Should we slice my palm and drip some blood on the sheets? Hang them from the public square?”

His eyes close briefly and he grits out, “I doubt there are any expectations of virginity on your part.”

“Fantastic. I love surprising people.”

I see the confusion in his parted lips, before he subdues it and shifts back to his default austere expression.

It’s amusing to me, the idea that someone who has skimmed a synopsis of my life would assume I’ve had any sort of romantic entanglement. With whom? A Vampyre, when they only see me as a traitor? A Human, who would consider me a monster?

The birth control shot I was given before coming here was a joke, not just because Lowe and I are as likely to have sex as we are to start a podcast together, but also because he’s a Were and I a Vampyre, and we couldn’t reproduce even if we wanted to. Interspecies relationships are unheard of—if not unseen, judging by all the Human-produced porn Serena and I would watch. We’d eat popcorn and laugh at the untalented actors in purple contacts and fake teeth engaging in acts that proudly showcased their ignorance of Vampyre anatomy. Were, too. I’m no expert, but I’m fairly sure their dicks wouldn’t get stuck in an orifice like that.

“Where did you learn how to fight?” Lowe asks. Probably to change the topic from sex with his least favorite sentient species.

“Was it not listed in your briefing memo?”

He shakes his head. “I did wonder how you could still be alive, after seven attempts on your life.”

“So did I. And there were more than that, though most were half-assed. We got tired of reporting them.”

“We?”

“My foster sister and I.” I cross my arms, and now I’m mirroring his pose. Here we are, too close once again, my elbows almost brushing his. “We took self-defense classes together.”

You know her, don’t you? She knows you. Tell me something. Anything.

He does, but not what I want to hear. “No fighting in Were territory.”

“Sure. So, next time someone attacks me, I let them help themselves? Then again, you could be the next one to attack me. Since you’re not exactly a fan.”

The pause that follows is not encouraging. “For as long as you live in Were territory, you are under my protection. And under my authority.”

I let out a silent, breathy laugh. “What are your orders for me, then?”

He takes one step closer, and the tension in the room instantly changes, shifting to something tighter, more dangerous. Fear stabs my stomach, that maybe I pushed too much. That’s why a Were is bending over me: to remind me how insignificant I am and say, “I need you to behave, Misery.”

His voice is all hard consonants and narrow eyes, and a shiver runs up my spine, cold and electric. My mind jumps back to Alex’s words: Even his scent was right. Everyone knew that he had the making of an Alpha. I’m no Were, and if I inhale, all I can smell is clean sweat and strong blood, but I think I know what he meant. Somehow I feel it, the compulsion to nod, agree. To do as Lowe wants.

I have to actively stop myself. And shiver in the process.

“At least you are clever enough to be afraid,” he murmurs.

I grit my teeth. “Just cold. You keep the temperature far too low.”

His nostrils flare. “Do as I fucking tell you, Misery.”

“But of course.” My voice is steady, but he knows how rattled I am. Just as I know I’m rattling him. “May I be excused?”

He nods brusquely, and I dart for the door. But then I remember something important I’ve been meaning to ask.

I turn back to him. “Can my cat—”

I stop, because Lowe’s eyes are closed. He’s inhaling deeply, as though gathering every possible air molecule within the room inside his lungs. And he looks . . .

Tormented. In pure, absolute agony. He straightens his expression when he notices that I’m looking, but it’s too late.

My stomach twists with something slimy and unpleasant. Guilt. “I took a bath. Did that not make it better?”

His stare is blank. “Make what better?”

“My scent.”

He swallows visibly. His tone is sharp. “The situation hasn’t improved for me.”

“But how—”

“What were you going to ask, Misery?”

Oh. Right. “I have a cat.”

He scowls like I told him I keep pet centipedes. “You have a cat.”

“Yup.” I stop at that, because Lowe hasn’t earned the right to any explanation for my life choices. Not that anything about Serena’s damn fucking cat was a choice. “He’s currently locked in my room, if your sister didn’t let him out with her pilfered key. Can I let him roam around the house, or will Max try to frame him for racketeering?”

“Your cat is welcome among us,” Lowe says. If that’s not a jab, nothing else is.

“Wonder how that feels,” I say breezily, and slip out of the room without glancing at him again.