Bride

“I’m going to—fuck.” His voice is a thick, urgent rumble against my ear. “Misery, let me—” A stifled, filthy sound comes out of his throat. He’s rock-hard, and when he lifts me higher, fingertips pressed into my ass, trying to thrust against the perfect spot in me, I almost lose contact with his vein. Almost. I let out a plaintive, needy whimper, even as I writhe against his cock.

“I know,” he murmurs, soothing, commanding. “I know. Be good, I’m going to—”

The first twitches of pleasure hit me so hard, so sudden, I ca

I’m glad Lowe is pi

His vein. His precious, beautiful vein.

I’m not capable of rational thought at the moment, but I lean forward and suck at the wounds I opened, then lick at them like a kitten, rescuing every last green drop. It’s an automatism, something written in my genes, and Lowe seems to enjoy it, too. Intense satisfaction radiates from him. His big hands clutch at my hips. Soft, pleased praises are muttered against my cheekbones.

The blood stops seeping through, his skin sealing shut. I pull back feeling supremely smug, brimming with pride for a job well done. I’m full. Satiated. Happy. I’m strong and warm all over, comfortable in a way I haven’t really experienced before, and it’s all thanks to Lowe, and his powerful blood, the way his heavy breath rolls against my skin—

Oh, God.

Lowe.

“I—” I push against his shoulders, and he doesn’t immediately react. “Let go of me.”

It’s all it takes. He gently lowers me until my feet are on the ground, then tries to take a step back, but I don’t—can’t—let him. I cling to his shirt, following his retreat.

“Misery.”

I’m physically unable to give him up.

“Misery.”

His hoarse voice jerks me out of my trancelike state. I put some air between us, which feels like a supremely bad idea, cold and invasive and all wrong. My hair is wild and the fabric of my dress caught at my waist, but I’m too busy staring at Lowe to do anything about it. His pupils have swallowed the irises. They travel down my legs, mesmerized.

With the distance, the awareness of what just happened slowly trickles into me—then drowns me like a water flood.

Shit. It’s not that I fed from him, even though I did, but also . . . I had no clue that . . . “I am so sorry,” I gasp out, straightening my clothes.

He shakes his head, chest heaving rhythmically up and down. His eyes are different. Not his anymore.

“I’d never . . . from someone. I had no idea it would be . . . Did I hurt you?”

There’s something raptorial about the way he shakes his head. Slow, careful. I take a step back, feeling like I’m being tracked by a much stronger, faster predator.

“Okay.” I lick the corner of my lip. This aftertaste in my mouth is his blood, and there is something deliciously erotic about it—he is alive, breathing in front of me, warm and strong. This living being, this man, this Were, produced plasma and green blood cells and chose to provide me with them.

Life and sustenance.

It’s so intimate. Sexual, but more than that. Not something I could imagine sharing with just anyone, except for . . .

Lowe. Of course.

I look down at my crumpled dress, feeling like a child who just found out that she didn’t really come from the cabbage patch.

“Misery.” I peel my eyes from my feet. Lowe looks disheveled. A little shell-shocked. Confused. Obviously horny. He strokes his erection once over the tented fabric of his pants, staring at my face in that spellbound way. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” I lick my lips, finding more traces of him. “I don’t think so.”

That’s when I hear the steps and remember why I was sucking on his blood a second ago. “They’re coming,” I hiss, hurrying to the computer to disco

“Lowe? You know someone’s coming, right?”

“Yeah,” he says simply, and for a moment I think he might be broken. Then I realize—what should we even do? Run? We’ve already been caught. Now it’s all about committing to the show.

“Are you okay?” I ask. Because I didn’t think to, before.

He murmurs, “Come back,” a hand outstretched in my direction. I don’t think he’s okay, but neither am I, so I cross the room.

He hugs me, both arms enveloping my shoulders, my head nestled under his chin. It’s not like before—not in that sexual, feverish way that’s all about heat and shared skin and contact. This hug is all about closeness, and Lowe burying his nose in my hair, and my heartbeat seeking his. We should probably discuss what to do when the next person barges in, come up with an action plan, but all I want is to be here. Cling to him.

“I could fuck you very nicely right now,” he says into my ear. He sounds honest, and a bit resigned. “I almost did.”

“I’m sorry. I never imagined it would lead to . . .”

“I know. I’m just really . . .” His lips move against my forehead, soft and warm. “I’ve never felt like this.”

“Like what?”

“Turned on. Smitten. And . . . and other things.”

I feel the exact same. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “It must be—I’m going to talk to my brother. It might be something I’ve done.” It’s not. It’s just right.

Lowe’s stubble drags against my temple. “Have you had enough?”

“Enough?”

“Blood.”

“Oh. Yes.”

But, I’d like more.

But, May I have more?

I want it. So bad. I’m about to say fuck it and ask for it assertively, like a big girl, when the door opens again. This time, Lowe and I manage to break apart. He steps protectively in front of me, the tenderness between us dissolving.

“I thought my guards were having hallucinations,” Emery says, eyeing us suspiciously. “I must have forgotten to lock this room.” Her gaze lingers on Lowe’s neck—woundless, but faintly bluish-green. As if someone latched on to it and didn’t let go for a long while. “When you mentioned feeding, Lowe, I assumed . . .” Her lips twist into something that resembles disgust.

“You should never. Assume, that is.” Lowe’s voice is cutting.

And then Koen appears behind Emery, leaning against the doorjamb with a shit-eating grin. “I, for one, am glad the kids are having fun.”

“Yeah, well. When you’re done, please come back to the table. We’re waiting for you for dessert.”

“Aunt Emery, they already had dessert.”

Emery makes a revulsed face and brushes past Koen. Lowe doesn’t relax even when she’s gone: his broad shoulders remain tense, gaze fixed on Koen as if he were a threat, someone I should be shielded from, instead of Lowe’s most trusted and valuable ally.

Which, going by his amused smile, Koen knows. “And to think that you’re the most sensible Were I’ve ever met. Look how finding her made you,” he says cryptically. He gives Lowe a fond glance, and then his expression shifts. “I got a phone call. Cal tried to reach you with something important but wasn’t able to. It’s urgent.”