Bride

“Do you really think I ca

Mick sighs. “Just because we haven’t found your limit yet doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

“Doesn’t mean there is, either.”

Ana turns on my lap and climbs up my torso like a squirrel, hugging my neck and nuzzling my hair. It’s the most direct physical contact I’ve experienced, ever—to my surprise, not excessively unpleasant. I ask, “Are you sure Emery would agree to meet you, after you . . .” Slaughtered her husband?

“She extended the invitation,” Mick says, resigned.

“No way.”

“As is customary for the mate of the previous Alpha. To guarantee a peaceful succession.”

“Wow.” Ana starts fidgeting and reaches out for Lowe, but he’s exchanging a long stare with Mick and doesn’t notice. I pat his arm to get his attention and he gives me a wide-eyed, disturbed look, like I tried to scorch him with a cattle iron. Does he think my smell is going to rub off? He’s way more skunk adjacent than I’ll ever be.

“I think it’s a trap,” Mick decrees.

Lowe shrugs. The movement delights Ana, so he repeats it. “I’m willing to risk it.”

“But—”

“My mind is made up.” He smiles at Ana and shifts register. “I’ll have someone look into bouncy castles,” he adds, and the rest of the di

I shake my head and tune back in to the conversation. Ana laughs, Lowe grins, Alex smiles. And then there’s Mick, who stares at me with a worried expression on his weathered face.

CHAPTER 13

He tries to avoid thinking about what he’d do to her father if only it wouldn’t cause the worst diplomatic incident of the current century.

Ana was right: it isn’t that difficult, climbing up to the roof, even for someone with the hand-eye coordination of a platypus.

I.e., me.

It takes me less than fifteen seconds to get there, and it’s vaguely empowering, the way I never even feel like my brains will end up splattered in the plumbago flower bed. Once I’m sitting on the tiles, vaguely uncomfortable but not willing to admit it, I close my eyes and breathe in, then out, then in, letting the breeze play with my hair, welcoming the tickle of the night sky. The waves wash gently over the shore. Every once in a while, something splashes on the lake. I don’t even mind the bugs, I tell myself. If I persevere, I’ll believe it. That’s what I’m failing at when Lowe arrives.

He doesn’t notice me right away, and I get to observe him as he gracefully lifts himself up the eave. He stands on an edge that should be terrifying, lifting a hand to his eyes and pressing thumb and index fingers into them, so hard he must see stars. Then he lets his arm drop to his side and he exhales once, slowly.

This, I think, is Lowe. Not Lowe the Alpha, Lowe the brother, Lowe the friend, or the son, or the unfortunate husband of the equally unfortunate wife. Just: Lowe. Tired, I think. Lonely, I assume. Angry, I bet. And I don’t want to disturb his rare moment alone, but the breeze lifts, blowing in his direction and carrying my scent.

He instantly spins around. To me. And when his eyes become all pupils, I lift my hand and awkwardly wave.

“Ana told me about the roof,” I say, apologetic. I’m intruding on a cherished private moment. “I can leave . . .”

He shakes his head stoically. I swallow a laugh.

“If you sit here”—I point to my right—“you’ll be between me and the wind. No bouillabaisse smell.”

His lips twitch, but he makes his way to the spot I was pointing at, his large body folding next to mine, far enough to avoid accidental touches. “What do you even know about bouillabaisse?”

“As it’s not hemoglobin or peanut based, nothing. So.” I clap my hands. The cicadas quiet, then resume their singing after a disoriented pause. “Tell me if I got it right: You’ll use your meeting with Emery as an excuse to plant some spyware or interceptor that will allow you to monitor her communications and gain proof that she’s leading the Loyals. But you are going into enemy territory alone, and have the computer skills of an octogenarian Luddite, which puts you at great risk. Actually, no need to tell me if I’m right, I already know. When are you plunging to your imminent death? Tomorrow or Friday?”

He studies me like he’s not sure whether I’m a bench or a postmodern sculpture. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “I truly don’t get it,” he muses.

“Get what?”

“How you managed to stay alive despite your reckless outbursts.”

“I must be very smart.”

“Or incredibly stupid.”

Our eyes clash for a few seconds, full of something that feels more confusing than antagonism. I glance away first.

And just say it, without thinking it through. “Take me with you. Let me help with the tech part.”

He huffs out a tired, noiseless snort. “Just go to bed, Misery, before you get yourself killed.”

“I’m nocturnal,” I mutter. “Little offensive, that my husband doesn’t think I can take care of myself.”

“A lot offensive, that my wife thinks that I’d take her with me into a highly volatile situation where I might not be able to protect her.”

“Okay. Fine.” I glance back at him—his earnest, stubborn, uncompromising face. In the fading moonlight, the lines of his cheekbones are ready to slice me. “You can’t do it on your own, though.”

He gives me an incredulous look. “Are you telling me what I can and ca

“Oh, I would never, Alpha,” I say with a mocking tone that I only half regret when he glares back. “But you can’t even start a computer.”

“I can start a fucking computer.”

“Lowe. My friend. My spouse. You’re clearly a competent Were with many talents, but I’ve seen your phone. I’ve seen you use your phone. Half of your gallery is blurry pictures of Ana with your finger blocking the camera. You type ‘Google’ in the Google bar to start a new search.”

He opens this mouth. Then snaps it closed.

“You were about to ask me why that’s the wrong way.”

“You’re not coming.” His tone is definitive. And when he makes to stand, driven away by my insistence, I feel a stab of guilt and reach out for the leg of his jeans, pulling him back down. His eyes fix on the place where I’m gripping him, but he relents.