Bride

“Especially brave, you are.” The governor takes another swig. “What an interesting life you have led. A Vampyre raised among Humans. The famous Collateral. The Weres, it seems to me, have two reasons to hate you.”

I distractedly run my tongue over my regrown fangs, wondering if a fight will break out. The hatred in the room is thick, suffocating. The Human guards, too, sharkle around, a little too eager to strike, curb, defend. A gust of wind could make this coiling tension snap.

“Then again, Moreland gave up a lot for this arrangement. The Collateral they’re sending . . . The councilman’s daughter for the Alpha’s mate. Sounds like poetry, right?”

My head whips around. The Governor’s eyes are glazed. “The Alpha’s what?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned her. It’s a secret, of course, but . . .” He chuckles deep in his throat and tips his glass at me.

“Did you say ‘mate’? Like a spouse?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge, Miss Lark. Or should I say, Mrs. Moreland?”

“Shit,” I mutter softly, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Was Moreland married before? If that’s the case, I ca

That, and how I apparently smell like rotten eggs.

Well, tough shit, I tell myself as I push away from the railing. He and Father are the masterminds of this marriage. I am the masterminded. Hopefully he’ll remember that and not direct his anger at me. “A pleasure chatting with you, governor,” I lie, waving goodbye.

“If you decide to change it, call my office.” He makes the phone hand gesture, the one old people use. “I can speed up the paperwork.”

“Excuse me?”

“The name.”

“Ah. Yes, thank you.”

I head downstairs, in search of Owen. I think I saw him deep in conversation with Councilman Cintron earlier—gossiping, which he can do like a pro. I bet he can find out more about this mate business. Chances are, he already knew but didn’t say anything because he found the thought of this poor woman jumping up in the middle of the ceremony to object hilarious, and wanted to see a rabid wolf eat my pancreas for being a home-wrecker in front of the upper crust of Vampyre society.

“—never heard of anything like it.”

I halt abruptly, because—

My husband.

My husband is here, at the bottom of the stairs.

He got rid of his jacket, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up. Two people stand with him: a Were with a ginger beard—the best man, if I’m not mistaken—and another, older, gray-haired, with a deep white scar on his neck. Their expressions are somber, and Moreland’s arms are crossed on his chest.

It’s a scene I’ve come across before, with my father: a powerful man, hearing important information from people he trusts. The last thing I want is to walk past them right now, in close competition with the second to last—reprising my conversation with the governor. Still, I’m ready to go back and hear more about the failures of my given name, until:

“—the consequences, if it really is her,” the best man continues.

It’s the her that stops me in my tracks. Because it feels like it might be referring to . . .

Moreland presses his lips together. His jaw clenches and he says something, but his voice is deeper, lower than his companions’. I ca

“It must have been a moment of confusion. She ca

Lowe’s broad back stiffens. I’m afraid he heard me move, but he doesn’t turn. I relax when he says, “You think it’s a mistake I would make?”

The older man freezes. Then hangs his head, apologetic. “I do not, Alpha.”

“We need to change our plans, Lowe.” The ginger. “Find other accommodations. You shouldn’t live with—” A commotion erupts in the hall, and their heads lift in its direction. When I follow suit, my stomach drops.

A short distance away, two children are bawling. They are toddlers, one with dark skin and lilac eyes, the other pale and blue-eyed. A Vampyre and a Were. Between them lies a dark blue superhero action figure, broken in two at the waist. And next to them, clutching their respective sons, are a Vampyre father and a Were mother. Who, for reasons I ca

The music stops when the noise in the room rises to a panicked pitch. A small crowd surrounds the kids, and the Human guards join it, drawing their weapons and bringing firearms into the mess. My heart thumps dully in my chest as the tension grows fat and sticky, the start of another massacre that will go down in the history books—

“Here.”

Lowe Moreland kneels between the children, and the room drops to a deafening silence. The Vampyre’s father, whom I now recognize as Councilman Sexton, pushes his son behind his legs, upper lip peeled back to reveal his long canines.

“It’s all good,” Moreland says. Calm. Reassuring. Not to the father, but to the child. As he holds out the intact action figure—not broken, after all.

The boy hesitates. Then his hand darts out from between his father’s knees to collect his toy, mouth widening into a toothy smile.

Several of the guests exhale in relief. Not me, though. Not yet.

“Anything you’d like to say?” Moreland asks, this time to the Were child. The boy blinks several times before looking at the ground with a pout.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, the r’s rounded into w’s. He looks on the verge of crying, but then dissolves into laughter when Moreland ruffles his hair and picks him up, effortlessly wedging him under his arm like a football. He turns around, giving his back to the group of Vampyres assembled around the Sextons, and returns the little Were to his table.

Just like that, the tension relaxes. Vampyres and Weres return to their seats with a few lingering looks of distrust. The music resumes. My husband makes his way back to the bottom of the stairs, without lifting his eyes or noticing me, and I finally let out the breath I was holding.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Tell the others, too,” he quietly orders the ginger and the older Were, who nod and leave to mix with the guests. Moreland sighs, and I wait for a handful of seconds, hoping he’ll join them and clear my way.

Two handfuls.

What feels a lot like a minute.

A minute and more handfuls—

“I know you’re there,” he says, not looking at anyone in particular. I have no idea who he’s addressing until he adds, “Come down, Miss Lark.”

Oh.

Well.

This is nicely mortifying.

There are about ten steps separating us, and I could crawl my way down in shame. But our species have been mortal enemies since electricity wasn’t a thing, which might put us beyond embarrassment. What’s some eavesdropping among foes?

“In your own time,” he adds wryly.

Given the . . . incident a couple of hours ago, I’m hesitant to go stand next to him. But perhaps I shouldn’t have worried: when I reach his side, his nostrils twitch and a muscle jumps in his jaw, but that’s about it. Moreland doesn’t look my way, nor does he seem too tempted to mangle me.

Progress.

Still, I have no idea what to say. So far we’ve only exchanged recited promises that neither of us means to keep, and some commentary on my body odor. “You can call me Misery.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah. I probably should.”

We fall into silence. In the far corner of the courtyard, what seems to be another small ruckus involving a Were and Vampyre nearly pops up, but it’s swiftly curbed by a Were woman I vaguely remember standing by the altar.