Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “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, running a hand through it until it falls limp around my shoulders. I take everything else off and stand naked, skin pale and cool and tacky.

            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.