Bride

She makes lots of “you are officially condemned to a lifetime of Misery” jokes, and Lowe isn’t sure he found them funny at first, let alone now that it’s been a week of having her back, but he cannot help being delighted every single time.

Even as he sighs and shakes his head disapprovingly.

“To the right. Actually, to the left. Actually, just let me do it,” she grumbles, stealing the hammer from his hand. They’re hanging a picture on the wall of what’s to become Ana’s room once again. It’s silly, something Lowe drew off the cuff yesterday, because that’s what he’s been: Spontaneous. Inspired. Happy.

A giant, Godzilla-like Sparkles towering over the Hollywood Sign—that happens to spell LILIANA—is not Lowe’s usual artistic fare. And he didn’t think the result was that good. But when he left his sketch pad open on the kitchen counter, Misery and Serena got a glimpse, and his every protest was met with rolled eyes and accusations that he was fishing for compliments. As soon as the sun went down, they stole his car and drove around for hours just to find the perfect frame.

And while they were gone, Lowe moved Misery’s boxes to the adjacent room. She’ll just be in Lowe’s, since that’s what makes the most sense.

Just be with him.

His mate.

With him.

He hasn’t quite gotten used to the idea. It’s possible that when it comes to feelings like the ones he has for Misery, big and overwhelming and all-encompassing, accustoming is not something that happens, ever. The raw preciousness might never wear off. And whenever he dwells on the future, the possibilities, his heartbeat always picks up like it’s in a race against itself.

And Misery always notices.

“What’s up with that?” she asks, words mumbled around the nail between her teeth. “Cardiac event?” She gives him a side look with her pretty lilac eyes. Her profile is soft, delicate lines punctuated by the dramatic points of her ear and teeth and chin. It nearly knocks the air out of his lungs.

He doesn’t know how to answer her. So he just moves closer, trailing a hand up her back while she hammers into the wall. When that’s not enough, he wraps his arms around her torso. Inhales her exhilarating, mind-bending scent. Closes his eyes.

He wasn’t alone before her. If someone had asked, he wouldn’t have admitted to being unhappy. He had a pack and a sister to see to, things to be passionate about, friends he’d give his life for. He never thought he was missing anything. But now . . .

He’s not sure he deserves the warmth of his current life, but he’ll keep it anyway.

“Hi,” Misery says, as though they haven’t been together the entire evening, since the very second she woke up. She sets the hammer and nail down on her dresser. Her pale hand curls softly around his forearm. He feels deep, grounding happiness.

“Hey,” he says.

She starts tracing letters into his skin, and he wants to tell her to slow down, to spell the words again. But then he picks up on an L, and a V, and a Y, and he thinks that maybe he can guess—

“The pest has arrived,” she whispers excitedly as a car pulls up the driveway under the window. Misery wriggles out of his hug, and Lowe swallows a sullen grunt that he’s not his mate’s first and only preoccupation. Then he follows her downstairs.

He hasn’t seen Ana for over two weeks, but his sister barely gives him a perfunctory hug, too busy showing Miresy and her new friend Serena the new carrier Uncle Koen bought for Sparkles.

Lowe bites back a smile and walks outside just as his closest friend gets out of his car. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

Koen snorts. “Bro, you owe me ten. And not because of Ana.”

“What else?”

“Emery has been blowing up the family chat. Among other things, apparently.” He shrugs at Lowe’s lifted eyebrow. “What? Too soon?”

Lowe sighs and gestures him inside. “Come in. I’ll catch you up on the shitshow of the past ten days.”

“Very excited to hear all about—”

One single step inside the house, and Koen halts as though he just walked into a pile of bricks. His palm reaches for the wall in search of support.

“What the hell?” Lowe stares at him with a frown. When no reply comes, he turns to study his friend. His body is vibrating, ever so slightly. His pupils contract, like they often do when a Were is on the brink of shifting. And his eyes . . .

Lowe follows Koen’s gaze. It’s trained on a small figure crouched on the living room floor. She’s currently scratching the chin of a purring Sparkles and murmuring apologies at him.

Serena.

Koen’s gaze remains there for a long time, as though captured, or maybe unwilling to let go.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls. His voice is gruff. Too deep. “I’m fucked, all right.”

Understanding immediately dawns on Lowe.

This, he thinks, is going to be an issue.