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He stares and stares and stares.
The silence stretches. The officiant clears his throat. The courtyard breaks into bouts of puzzled mumbles that slowly rise to a sticky, familiar friction. I notice that the best man has unsheathed his claws. Behind me, Vania, the head of my father’s guards, is showing her fangs. And the Humans, of course, are reaching for their guns.
All through that, my future husband still stares.
So I step closer and murmur, “I don’t care how little you like this, but if you want to avoid a second Aster—”
His hand comes up lightning fast to close around my upper arm, and the warmth of his skin is a shock to my system, even through the fabric of my sleeve. His pupils contract into something different, something animal. I instinctively try to wriggle free of his grasp, and . . . it’s a mistake.
My heel catches on a cobblestone and I lose my balance. The groom stops my fall with an arm snaked around my waist, and a combination of gravity and his sheer determination wedges me between him and the altar, his front pressing against mine. He cages me, pins me, and stares down at me like he forgot where he is and I’m something to be consumed.
Like I’m prey.
“This is highly— Oh, my,” the officiant gasps when the groom growls in his direction. Behind me I hear the Tongue and English—panic, screams, chaos, the best man and my father snarling, people yelling threats, someone sobbing. Another Aster in the making, I think. And I really should do something, I will do something to stop it, but.
The groom’s scent hits my nostrils.
Everything recedes.
Good blood, my hindbrain hisses, nonsensical. He’d make for such good blood.
He inhales several times in rapid succession, filling his lungs, pulling me in. His hand moves up from my arm to the dip of my throat, pressing into one of my markings. A guttural sound rises from someplace low in his chest, making my knees weak. Then he opens his mouth and I know that he’s going to tear me to pieces, he’s going to maul me, he’s going to devour me—
“You,” he says, voice deep, almost too low to hear. “How the fuck do you smell like this?”
Less than ten minutes later he slips a ring around my finger, and we swear to love each other till the day we die.
CHAPTER 1
It’s been storming for three days straight when he finally returns from a meeting with the leader of the Big Bend huddle. Two of his seconds are already inside his home, waiting for him with wary expressions.
“The Vampyre woman—she backed out.”
He grunts as he wipes his face. Smart of her, he thinks.
“But they found a replacement,” Cal adds, sliding a manila folder on the counter. “Everything’s in here. They want to know if she has your approval.”
“We proceed as pla
Cal huffs out a laugh. Flor frowns. “Don’t you want to look at the—”
“No. This changes nothing.”
They’re all the same, anyway.
Six weeks before the ceremony
She shows up at the start-up where I work on an early Thursday evening, when the sun has already set and the entire bullpen is contemplating grievous bodily harm.
Against me.
I doubt I deserve this level of hatred, but I do understand it. And that’s why I don’t make a fuss when I return to my desk following a brief meeting with my manager and notice the state of my stapler. Honestly, it’s fine. I work from home 90 percent of the time and rarely print anything. Who cares if someone smeared bird shit on it?
“Don’t take it personally, Missy.” Pierce leans against our cubicle divider. His smile is less concerned friend, more smarmy used car salesman; even his blood smells oily.
“I won’t.” Other people’s approval is a powerful drug. Lucky me, I never got the chance to develop an addiction. If there’s something I’m good at, it’s rationalizing my peers’ contempt toward me. I’ve been training like piano prodigies: tirelessly and since early childhood.
“No need to sweat it.”
“I’m not.” Literally. I barely own the necessary glands.
“And don’t listen to Walker. He didn’t say what you think he did.”
Pretty sure it was “nasty bitch” and not “tasty peach” that he yelled across the conference room, but who knows?
“It comes with the territory. You’d be mad, too, if someone did a penetration test against a firewall you’ve been working on for weeks and breached it in what, one hour?”
It was maybe a third of that, even counting the break I took in the middle after realizing how quickly I was blowing through the system. I spent it online shopping for a new hamper, since Serena’s damn cat seems to be asleep in my old one whenever I need to do laundry. I texted her a picture of the receipt, followed by You and your cat owe me sixteen dollars. Then I sat and waited for a reply, like I always do.
It didn’t come. Nor had I expected it would.
“People will get over it,” he Pierces on. “And hey, you never bring lunch, so no need to worry someone’ll spit in your Tupperware.” He bursts into laughter. I turn to my computer monitor, hoping he’ll peace out. Boy, am I wrong. “And to be honest, it’s kind of on you. If you tried to mingle more . . . Personally, I get your loner, mysterious, quiet vibe. But some read you as aloof, like you think you’re better than us. If you made an effort to—”
“Misery.”
When I hear my name called—the real one—for a split, exceptionally dumb second, I experience relief that this conversation is going to be over. Then I crane my neck and notice the woman standing on the other side of the divider. Her face is distantly familiar, and so is the black hair, but it’s not until I focus on her heartbeat that I manage to place her. It’s slow like only a Vampyre’s can be, and . . .
Well.
Shit.
“Vania?”
“You’re hard to find,” she tells me, voice melodic and low. I briefly contemplate slamming my head against the keyboard. Then settle for replying calmly:
“That’s by design.”
“I figured.”
I massage my temple. What a day. What a fucking day. “And yet, here you are.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“Why, hello.” Pierce’s smile gets a notch slimier as he turns to leer at Vania. His eyes start at her high heels, travel up the straight lines of her dark pantsuit, stop on her full breasts. I don’t read minds, but he’s thinking MILF so hard, I can practically hear it. “Are you a friend of Missy’s?”
“You could say that, yes. Since she was a child.”
“Oh my God. Do tell, how was baby Missy?”
The corner of Vania’s lips twitches. “She was . . . odd, and difficult. If often useful.”
“Wait—are you two related?”
“No. I’m her father’s Right Hand, Head of his Guard,” she says, looking at me. “And she has been summoned.”
I straighten in my chair. “Where?”
“The Nest.”
This is not rare—it’s unprecedented. Excluding sporadic phone calls and even more sporadic meetings with Owen, I haven’t spoken with another Vampyre in years. Because no one has reached out.
I should tell Vania to fuck off. I’m no longer a child stuck on a fool’s errand: going back to my father with any expectations that he and the rest of my people won’t be total assholes is an exercise in futility, and I’m well aware of it. But apparently this half-assed overture is making me forget, because I hear myself asking, “Why?”