Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            But when I’m with Lowe I feel different, because he is different. He never treats me like I’m the runner-up, even though I know I am. I could see myself becoming jealous, envious. Greedy for what he cannot give. It could quickly become unbearable, the pain of being just an afterthought to him. Not to mention that if—when, dammit, when—I find Serena, I’m going to have to make some important choices.

            “Misery,” he says, patient. Always patient, but also urgent. I realize that he’s offering me his hand. It’s outstretched, waiting for me, and . . . This cannot possibly end well. And yet, I think Lowe might be right. The two of us, we’re well past avoiding what’s between us.

            I smile. His warmth is tinged with intense melancholia. This won’t end well, but so few things do. Why deny ourselves?

            “Yeah?” I take his hand, registering his mild surprise when my fingers slide past his knuckles, then close around his wrist. I hold his palm in both of mine, upturn it. The meat of it is fun to trace, full of calluses, scars littering the rough skin.

            A large, capable, fearless hand.

            I bring it to my lips. Kiss it lightly. Scrape it gently with my teeth, which has his eyes fluttering closed. He mumbles a few hushed words, but I cannot make them out.

            “If I really do this,” I say against his flesh, “I should avoid your neck.”

            “Why?”

            “It might leave a trace. People would notice.”

            His eyes shoot open. “You think I’d mind?”

            “I don’t know,” I lie. I doubt Lowe cares about what others think of him.

            “You can do what you want with me,” he says, and it feels like he means more than just his blood.

            My fangs graze his wrist. I’m teasing myself as much as him. “Are you sure?” I hover, afraid that it won’t be as good as the first time. Maybe I embellished it in my head, and he’ll taste like every bag I’ve ever had—satisfactory, unremarkable.

            “Please,” he says, soft, hungry, and I sink my teeth into his vein. The wait for his blood to hit my tongue lasts long enough for thousands of civilizations to collapse. Then his flavor floods my mouth, and I forget about everything that is not us.

            My body blooms with new life.

            “Fuck,” he slurs. I take more with a strong pull, cradling his arm to myself, and he presses me against the fridge. His teeth come to my neck and bite, hard enough to leave a mark. He seems to have descended into a trancelike state, to be moved by instinct. “Sorry,” he gasps, and then resumes sucking on my neck, licking my pulse. Marking me. “Of all the good things.” He grasps my hips as I roll them into his. “Of all the good things I’ve felt in my fucking life, you are the best.”

            I take one last gulp and seal the wound with my tongue. His eyes are stark, wide. A wolf’s eyes. They stare at my fangs like he’s desperate to have them in his body once again. “Am I?”

            He nods. “I’m going to—” He kisses me, eager, immediately deep, tasting the rich flavor of his blood on my tongue. “Can I . . .” He picks me up and carries me upstairs. I bury my face into his neck, and every time I nibble at his glands, his arms tense with pleasure.

            Lowe’s room is dark, but light filters from the hallway. He deposits me in the middle of the unmade bed, pulling back instantly to take off his shirt. I sit up and look around, processing that this is really happening.

            “I didn’t change them for the longest time,” Lowe says.

            I admire his beautiful form, the corded strength of his body. I could bite him anywhere and would find nourishment. Sip from his round biceps, the V on his stomach, the hill of his lats.

            “What?” I’m losing track. Skipping words. “Didn’t change what?”

            “The sheets.”

            “Why?”

            “They smelled like you.”

            “When— Oh.” My break-in. “Sorry.”

            “The scent was so sweet. I got myself off to the filthiest fantasies, Misery.” He gently flips me around, belly against the mattress. My leggings are pulled down to my thighs, my shirt in the opposite direction. “And then the smell faded.” He climbs over me, on each side of my legs. His hands close on the round globes of my ass, half stroking, half gripping. Through the rough cloth of his jeans, his erection drags against my thighs. When I twist my head back, he’s tracing the shallow dimples in my lower back with a pleased expression. “Not the fantasies, though.” He descends over me, his heat an iron blanket. “I can’t be anything but what I am about this,” he whispers against the arch of my ear. There’s a hint of apology there.