Bride

Ana interrupts her bedtime story to communicate to him important, time-sensitive information: “Miresy is so so soooo pretty. I loooove her ears.”

He presses his lips together before resuming his reading.

Among the Vampyres, fangs are not just teeth—they are status.

Take muscles in Humans: Was there a time, a bunch of millennia ago, in which having a mate with inflated, bouncy biceps meant more protection from . . . the dinosaurs? I’m no history buff; I thrived in math and zero other subjects. The point is, athletic prowess provided an evolutionary advantage that’s now, in an era in which atomic bombs exist, fairly obsolete. And yet, Humans still find it attractive.

Canines are much the same for Vampyres: they’re considered a symbol of strength and power, because in the olden days we’d hunt our prey and sink our teeth into their flesh to feast on their blood. The longer, the sharper, the bigger—the better.

And this wolf’s . . . This wolf’s fangs could win contests. Rule civilizations. Get their owner engaged, married, and very much laid at any Vampyre party. And they could shred me into M&M’s.

“Are you an actual wolf?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Or are you a Were who part-times?”

The only reply is a deep, long, panties-shitting growl.

“Would it make things better or worse if I growled back?”

“Wouldn’t change it either way,” a voice says from the entrance.

Lowe. Leaning against the frame, relaxed like a loungewear model during a photoshoot.

“Thank you, Cal,” he says, coming my way. “That will be all.”

And magically, with one last half-hearted snarl in my direction, the wolf shakes its beautiful gray fur and trots away. It stops by Lowe and butts its head against his thigh.

“Cal? As in . . .” He turns to me and I stare at his face, looking for similarities. I’d have expected consistency between Weres’ shifted and human forms, but Cal’s a redhead. I crane my neck to get a better look at the wolf, but Lowe steps in front of me, blocking my view.

“What the fuck are you doing, wife?” He sounds like a volatile mix of tired and irritated. Any thought of Were phenotypes instantly departs.

I just got caught. Doing something very bad. And I’m in real danger.

“Just looking for . . .” What? “Sticky notes.”

“Do Vampyres keep sticky notes inside their computers?”

Fuck. “I was trying to check my email.” I swallow. “Get in touch with friends.”

“You don’t have friends, Misery.”

I’m not sure why this hurts when it’s true.

“And I’m very much not an IT person, but that”—he points at my code, which is still crunching along—“does not look like Yahoo.”

“Yahoo? Lowe, you’re really dating yourself here.”

“Come in,” he orders, and I cannot comprehend how I didn’t notice Alex idling by the door. Too busy contemplating my imminent demise, probably. “Can you figure out what she was doing?”

“On it.”

I scrunch my eyes shut, running possible scenarios in my head. I could knee Lowe in the groin and try to run away, but I don’t know if the crotch area is as sensitive to them as it is to us, and anyway . . . there are wolves prowling around. “You set me up,” I say. It comes out whiny, which is exactly how I feel. “You asked Mick to leave right in front of me because you knew I’d take advantage of it.”

“Misery.” He clucks his tongue, chiding, and moves closer, like he knows I’m considering darting away. His heartbeat envelops me, steady, determined. “You set yourself up, because you’re bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Snooping around.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Why did you go to my room? Why did you look through my closet and my drawers?” He leans forward. His voice drops to a half whisper, meant only for my ears. There’s something tortured to it, like he’s in physical pain. “Why did my bed smell like you slept in it?”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that I’d leave my scent behind. That Lowe would find my smell stuck to every surface of his room.

Fuck.

“Sorry,” I breathe out.

“You should be,” he says to the air between our lips. I wonder if my heart has ever beaten this loud before. This close to the surface of my skin.

“She—very astutely, I must say, and with only very primitive tools at her disposal—hacked into our servers,” Alex announces. A little admiringly, which is flattering.

“Are you the one who built the Weres’ firewall?” I ask.

“Yup. I’m the leader of our security team.” He sounds distracted as he combs through my code. Whatever fear he had when we were alone doesn’t hold if his Alpha’s present.

“Nice job.” Weird, how I’m having a conversation with Alex but staring up into Lowe’s eyes. About an inch from mine. “It’s pretty impenetrable.”

“Thank you. Are you, by any chance, the same person who tried to smash it down a few weeks ago?”

I swallow. Lowe’s eyes drift down to my throat. Linger there. “Can’t remember.”

“Alpha, she was running a search of our databases . . . three searches, to be precise. One for a date a little over two months ago, one for The Herald—a local human newspaper, I believe—and one for someone called Serena. Serena Paris.”

A wave of dread sweeps over me. There is no air in the world left for my lungs.

“And who would that be?” Lowe murmurs, licking his lips. He inhales me deeply, purposefully. “How interesting. In the past week I’ve witnessed two attempts on your life, and you’ve never smelled as scared as you do just now. Why, Vampyre?” His stark face is all sharp lines, sculpted by the glowing lights of the monitor. His lips move, full and ruthless. I cannot look away. “Who is Serena Paris, Misery?”

He sounds sincerely curious, and I wonder if maybe he has nothing to do with her disappearance. But maybe he does. Maybe he’s pretending. Maybe he didn’t know her name but hurt her anyway.

I push against his chest. It’s like trying to move an army of mountains. “Let me go.”

“Misery.” His eyes bore into mine. “You know I’m not going to do that. Alex,” he says, louder this time, still looking only at me. “Bring back Cal. It looks like we’re going to have to extract Gabi and break the armistice with the Vampyres.”

I overhear a hushed “Yes, Alpha.” Boots leave the room as I sputter:

“What?”

“I have to consider this as an act of aggression on behalf of your father and the rest of the Vampyre council. They sent a plant into Were territory under the guise of Collateral.” His jaw hardens. “And your scent—they tampered with it, didn’t they? They knew it would distract me—”

“No.” I’m crowded. Breathless. “This has nothing to do with my father.”

“Who were you planning to send this information to?”

“No one! Ask Alex to check. I didn’t set up any transmissions.”

He shifts closer. I can almost taste his blood on my tongue. “Alex isn’t here anymore.”

I knew we were alone, but now I feel it, just as I feel his warmth seeping through me. The heat has a predictable effect: my stomach twists and tightens. Hunger. Cravings. “I told you, I was just messing around.”

“This is not a game, Misery.” They vibrate through my bones, his words. “This alliance is new and frail, and—”

“Stop it. Just stop it.” I press my hands against his chest, begging for some space, because I’m—my head is spinning, full of warm, heated, odd thoughts, thoughts that involve veins and necks and taste. “Please. Please, don’t do anything. This has nothing to do with the alliance.”

“Okay.” He moves a step back, palms still leaning against the wall on each side of my head, and it’s a relief. His blood was starting to smell really good, and—

Nothing like that has ever happened to me. I must have forgotten to feed.

“Okay,” he repeats, “here are your options. First, you tell me who Serena Paris is and give me a reasonable explanation for this very poorly executed cloak-and-dagger quest. What happens to you next is my choice. Second, I proceed with the assumption you are a spy gathering intel on the Weres and use your corpse to send a clear message to your father.”

“Serena was my friend,” I blurt out. “My sister.”

Lowe’s entire body tenses. Like he had some guesses, but my answer was not among them. “A Vampyre, then.”

I shake my head. “Human. But we grew up together. In my first few months as the Collateral, I was disruptive. And sad. I tried to run away, put myself in dangerous situations, once I even . . . It was just me and the Human caregivers, and they hated me. So the Humans decided that the company of another child might make me more well-behaved. They found an orphan my age and brought her in to live with me.”

He huffs, bitter, and I’m afraid he might not believe me. But then he says, calm and yet not: “Fucking Humans.”

I swallow. “They did their best. At least they tried.”

“Not enough.” It’s a definite kind of judgment. Which I don’t care to argue with.

“Serena is gone. She vanished a few weeks ago, and—”

“You think a Were took her?”

I nod.

“Who?”

I have no choice but to tell him the truth. And if he has anything to do with her disappearance . . . He’ll have something to do with mine, too. “You.”

He seems unsurprised. “Why me?”

“You tell me.” I lift my chin. “Your name was in her planner, on the day she disappeared. Maybe she made plans to meet you. Maybe you were part of a story she was writing. I don’t know.”

“A story? Ah, that’s why The Herald. She was a journalist.” It’s not a question, but I nod.

Finally, Lowe pulls back. He remains between me and the door, but he rubs his hands across the stubble on his jaw, frowning somewhere in the distance, instantly preoccupied. Trying to recall. If he’s faking the confusion, he’s a good actor. And I cannot begin to guess why he’d lie to me. I’m stuck here for the next year, with limited and highly supervised ways to communicate with the outside world. He could admit to running five drug cartels and hijacking Air Force One, and I’d have no way to warn anyone.

“It’s a huge gamble.” He searches my face, pensive. A little like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Giving yourself as Collateral. Marrying me. All because someone wrote my name in her planner.”

I bite my lower lip. My stomach sinks at the idea that he might really not know anything. My only trail, leading to a ravine. “My best friend, my sister, is gone. And no one will look for her if I don’t. And the only thing she left behind, the only clue I have is a name, your name, L. E. Moreland—”

“Lowe!” The door bursts open. I expect Alex, or Cal, or an entire pack of rabid wolves coming to butcher me. Not a plaintive, “Where were you?” followed by the soft shuffle of socked steps on the hardwood floor.

I’m instantly forgotten. Lowe drops to his knees to greet Ana, and when she wraps her slim arms around his neck, his large hand comes up to cradle her head. “I was talking to Misery.”

She waves up at me. “Hi, Miresy.”

My throat feels full. “My name is not that hard to pronounce,” I mumble, but she seems to revel in my glare. And to be in high spirits, despite her attempted kidnapping. I applaud her resilience, but wow, children. They’re truly unfathomable.

“Will you read me a story before bed?” she asks Lowe.

“Of course, love.” He pushes a strand of still-wet hair behind her ear. “Go brush your teeth, I’ll—”

“Ana, where did you go?” Juno’s voice drifts in from the hallway, harried, out of breath. “Ana!”

“Did you run away from Juno?” Lowe whispers.

Ana nods, mischievous.

“Then you better hurry back to her.”

She pouts. “But I want to—”

“Liliana Esther Moreland! Come here at once, it’s an order!”

Ana stamps a kiss on Lowe’s cheek, mutters something delighted about how prickly it is, and then slips out in a flurry of blue and pink fabric. My eyes stay with her, and then on the ajar door, long after she disappears.

Dizzy.

I feel dizzy.

“Misery?”

I turn to Lowe. “Ana . . . ?” I swallow. Because, no. That’s not the right question. Instead: “Liliana?”

He nods.

“Esther.” L. E. Moreland. “I didn’t . . . I had no idea.”

Lowe nods again, eyes somber. “Misery. You and I need to talk.”