Bride

His voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t do this. It’s a death sentence. Say you’ve changed your mind—give me six weeks.”

“What will have changed in six weeks?”

He hesitates. “A month. I—”

“Is something amiss?” We both jump at Father’s sharp tone. For a split second we’re children again, again scolded for existing. As always, Owen recovers quicker.

“Nah.” The vacuous smile is back on his lips. “I was just giving Misery a few pointers.”

Father cuts through the security guards and tucks my hand into his elbow with ease, like it hasn’t been a decade since our last physical contact. I force myself not to recoil. “Are you ready, Misery?”

I cock my head. Study his stern face. Ask, mostly out of curiosity, “Does it matter?”

It must not, because the question isn’t acknowledged. Owen watches us leave, expressionless, then yells after us, “Hope you packed a lint roller. I hear they shed.”

One of the agents stops us in front of the double doors that lead into the courtyard. “Councilman Lark, Miss Lark, one minute. They’re not quite ready for you.” We wait side by side for a handful of uncomfortable moments, then Father turns to me. In my stylist-mandated heels, I nearly reach his height, and his eyes easily catch mine.

“You should smile,” he orders in the Tongue. “According to the Humans, a wedding is the most beautiful day of a bride’s life.”

My lips twitch. There’s something grotesquely fu

He sighs. “You were always needlessly defiant.”

My failures spare no front.

“There is no going back, Misery,” he adds, not unkindly. “Once the handfasting is complete, you will be his wife.”

“I know.” I don’t need soothing, or encouragement. I’ve been nothing but unwavering in my commitment to this union. I’m not prone to panic, or fear, or last-minute changes of heart. “I’ve done this before, remember?” He studies me for a few moments, until the doors open to what’s left of my life.

It’s a perfect night for an outdoor ceremony: string lights, soft breeze, winking stars. I take a deep breath, hold it in, and listen to Mendelssohn’s march, string quartet rendition. According to the bubbly wedding pla

It’s not their fault. Wedding ceremonies are, as of a century or so ago, exclusively a Human thing. Vampyre society has evolved past monogamy, and Weres . . . I have no clue what Weres are up to, as I’ve never even been in the presence of one.

If I had, I wouldn’t be alive.

“Come on.” Father grips my elbow, and we start down the aisle.

The bride’s guests are familiar, but only vaguely. A sea of willowy figures, unblinking lilac eyes, pointed ears. Lips closed over fangs, and half-pitying, mostly disgusted looks. I spot several members of my father’s i

And then there’s the groom’s side. The one that emanates a foreign kind of heat. The one that wants me dead.

The Weres’ blood beats quicker, louder, its smell coppery and unfamiliar. They are taller than Vampyres, stronger than Vampyres, faster than Vampyres, and none of them seems particularly enthused at the idea of their Alpha marrying one of us. Their lips curl as they eye me, defiant, angry. Their loathing is so thick I taste it on the roof of my palate.

I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to be here. I don’t even blame the whispers, or the catty comments, or the fact that half the guests here never learned that sound carries farther than shit.

“. . . she used to be the Collateral with the Humans for ten years, and now this?”

“I bet she likes the attention . . .”

“—blade-eared leech—”

“I give her two weeks.”

“More like two hours, if those animals—”

“. . . either stabilize the region once and for all, or cause full-out war, again—”

“—think they’re actually going to be fucking tonight?”

I have no friends on the left, and only enemies on the right. So I ground myself and look straight ahead.

At my future husband.

He stands at the end of the path, turned away from me, listening to what someone is whispering in his ear—his best man, perhaps. I can’t get a good look at his face, but I know what to expect from the picture I was given weeks ago: handsome, striking, unsmiling. His hair is short, a rich brown cut to a buzz; his suit is black, well fitted across his broad shoulders. He’s the only man in the room not wearing a tie, and yet he manages to look elegant anyway.

Maybe we share a stylist. As good a starting point for a marriage as any, I suppose.

“Be careful with him,” Father whispers, lips barely moving. “He is very dangerous. Do not cross him.”

What every girl wants to hear ten feet from the altar, especially when the hard line of her groom’s shoulders already looks cross. Impatient. A

Misery Lark? No need to be careful. She’s not particularly dangerous, so feel free to cross her. What is she go