Bride

“Are we—you . . . at war? With the Vampyres?”

He shakes his head. “It came close. The council was not happy.”

“Aw. I bet Father was heartbroken.” Not.

Lowe’s set jaw tells me how perfectly fine Father was. “Once we were sure that you’d pull through, Averill pointed out to the council that the poison is toxic to Weres, too, and that since you ingested it through Were food, it’s unlikely that it was meant for you to begin with.”

“Oh, God.” I hide my face into the doorjamb. “Does Father know about the peanut butter?”

“Is that what worries you?”

“Not sure what it says about me, but yeah.” I sigh. “Was it meant for Ana?”

“No way to be sure. But she’s the only one in the house who eats it regularly, aside from you.”

I squeeze my eyes, too worn out to deal with the anger sweeping over me. “How is she?”

“Safe. Away from here.”

“Where?” It occurs to me that it might be a secret. “Actually, you don’t have to tell me. It’s probably confidential.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “She’s with Koen. And yes, it’s confidential. No one else knows.”

“Oh.” I massage the curve of my neck. It’s a level of trust I ca

“Was it Emery? The Loyals?”

“I don’t know,” he says carefully. “I can’t think of anyone else having a motive, let alone the resources for this.”

“. . . but?”

“All of Emery’s communications are monitored. We have found evidence that she and her people are behind the arson that happened in the spring at one of the schools in the East. But if she’s behind Ana’s kidnapping attempt, I see no proof of it.” He presses his lips together. “I’m going to move you, too.”

“Move me?”

“To the Vampyres. Or the Humans, if you prefer. Koen is also an option. He’d keep you safe, and Ana would love to have you there, and I’d feel better knowing you two are together.”

“Lowe.” I take a step closer and shake my head. Which, apparently, now makes me dizzy. “This is very much not the first time someone has tried to off me, and I’m not going to— I don’t want to go away.” Why would I? I thought we . . . “We’re a team, right? And what would even happen with the armistice if I left?”

“It doesn’t matter. Your father doesn’t need to know. I can take care of everything and make sure that you’re as free—”

“No.”

I don’t realize how loudly I spoke until the word echoes through the room. For a split second, I see the guilt and agony Lowe’s wrestling with on his face. He sighs and bends his head.

“I almost got you killed, Misery.”

“You didn’t. Someone else did, and we should figure out who. Together.”

“My job is to protect you, and I failed. It happened under my watch, when I was standing inches away from you.”

“There you go.” My cheeks heat up. “A good reason for me not to leave. In fact, you should keep me even closer.” I say it a little flirtatiously, and it messes with his head as much as with mine. He steps into me, inhaling sharply. His words are a heated, barely audible hiss.

“Do you have no fucking fear?”

“No.”

“I have enough for both of us, then.” His jaw works, the intensity of his fury thick in the space between us. “How are you?” he asks after a while, voice once again calm. The change of topic is so brusque, I’m even dizzier.

“Kinda gross?” I shrug. “Like there should be flies buzzing around me. But maybe not, because they’d stick to my skin.”

“You sweated through your sheets multiple times.”

A feat, since Vampyres barely have sweat glands. “Did Dr. Averill change them?”

“I did.”

“Oh.”

“Juno helped. Sometimes. When I was able to let her. Once I calmed down.” He wipes his palm down his face. “It’s hard for me.”

“What is?”

“To see you like that. To let anyone else touch you when you’re hurt or sick or just . . . I didn’t need that qualifier, actually. To let anyone else touch you is . . .” He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth. I can’t quite follow—and then I can, when he says, “I’m not sure who I can trust anymore.”

“Ah.”

“I won’t let you . . .”

I reach out to clasp his shoulders. “Lowe, there’s no letting. And you can trust me.” I smile up at him. “Please. I’m going to stay, and I’m going to help, and I’m going to . . .” I take a deep breath.

No. God, no.

“Shower. I’m going to shower. I had not realized how bad I stink. I am offending myself.”

He studies me, undoubtedly preparing more rebuttals, lining up arguments, all ready to drive me away. But they never come. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts into a soft smile, and he abruptly picks me up, arms under my back and knees. “What are you— What is happening?”

“You do need washing,” he agrees, carrying me out of the room.

“Are you going to hose me off in the garden?”

“We’ll see.” But he brings me to my bathroom, deposits me on the marble counter, and draws a bath. I’m not so weak that I couldn’t do this on my own, but I enjoy watching his graceful movements, the hypnotic play of muscles under his T-shirt as he bends to fill the tub. The water level slowly rises, and he tests the temperature with his fingers. I think about Owen—the only person who may have been remotely upset by me being on the brink of death. I should contact him. I should ask after Lowe’s mate. As the Were Collateral, she must have been terrified, because my death would lead to hers. I bet Lowe was acutely aware, and feared for his mate.

But I also believe that he cares for me. Deeply.

He chooses a lavender bottle from the shelf. I can’t smell its scent, but as steam fills the room, I pack my lungs with warm air. I may not be who Lowe was meant for, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something here. And I’ve had so little throughout my life, I know better than to demand all or nothing. I’m good at making do.

“It’s ready,” he says with his deep, mundane voice.

It’s a dreamlike sequence, but we’re on the same page: I slide to my feet and untie my hair, ru

Should I be nervous? Because I’m not. Lowe . . . I’m not sure how he feels. He certainly doesn’t pretend to be uninterested, and looks his fill, following each curve of mine more than once, betraying little but hiding nothing. I’m not made like a Were woman. I’m not toned, and have no defined muscles. Either Lowe knew to expect it, or he doesn’t mind. His eyes glaze over as I step forward, and I take his hand when he offers it. I’m drowsy, wobbly-kneed. He lowers me into the tub.

“This feels nice.” I sigh once I’m submerged. I lean forward, forehead against my knees, letting my hair float around me.

“It does.” He’s not in the bath, but perhaps he’s referring to the shaky warmth of this unspoken agreement. This moment we’re sharing. He takes a washcloth from the shelf and dips it into the water.

His first pass is delicate over my bent neck. “So you’re one of them,” I say, instantly relaxed under his touch.

“Of who?”

“People who use washcloths.”

I hear his smile in his voice. “If you have a sponge . . .”

“I don’t use anything,” I offer.

Because it’s very much an offer. A request, even. But he says nothing and continues with my arms, starting from the ball of my shoulder. His hands are firm but lightly trembling. He might be more tense about this than I am. “It seemed too forward,” he admits at last. His cheekbones are dusted with an olive tone, his voice husky. He patiently works his way to my ankle, then slowly up my leg.

I decide to be forward. I take his hand into mine and stroke each knuckle with my thumb, one by one, and once his guard is relaxed, I steal the cloth from him and let it float away. I know he wants to touch me. I know he won’t ask. I know he needs me to do this—put his hand back on my knee, this time without barriers.