Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            Owen didn’t come alone. There’s a woman with him. A woman I’ve never met. A woman whose blood smells a lot like a Were’s.

            Lowe’s mate.





CHAPTER 24




                             He feels like the entire world is in the palm of his hand. She seems happy, too. And mystified by her own happiness, as though the feeling is something new and foreign. It has him wondering whether he could make this work. She’s not Were, and her lack of familiarity could be a blessing. She wouldn’t need to know the full truth, which in turn would ensure her freedom.





Lowe leans back against the trunk of his car in what seems to be the official position of performative harmlessness—crossed ankles, relaxed shoulders, his best I-may-be-one-powerful-Were-but-I-have-no-intention-of-brawling-with-you air.

            I settle next to him as Owen and Gabi make their way to us, trying to ignore my heart pounding in my chest. I nearly startle when Lowe laces his hand with mine.

            “You’re trembling,” he says. “Are you okay?”

            “I don’t know why.” Except that I do. “I’m cold, I think.”

            He pulls me closer—the best he can do, since I’m already wearing his sweater. I’m immediately enveloped in that toasty warmth his body always welcomes me with, and the scent of his heartbeat is delicious in my nostrils. Lowe peers at me like he knows something’s off.

            I brace myself for . . . I don’t know. Seeing Lowe reunited with his mate is something that requires preparation from me. I’ve sunk way too deep into this thing between us.

            “I asked you to fuck it out.” Owen’s voice is flat and annoyed, but no more than usual. “And yet, here you are. Subjecting me to this.”

            “Owen,” Lowe warns. His eyes linger on me for another instant, concerned, then flicker to my brother’s. “A pleasure.”

            “Learn from Gabrielle and me,” Owen continues. “We live together at the Nest, but haven’t developed unnecessary feelings for each other or any kind of sexual attraction. We cultivate a relationship of mild collaboration at best, severe indifference on average.”

            “Gabi.” Lowe’s nod is warm, cordial, surprisingly neutral.

            She’s a beautiful woman, with glossy dark hair and the patient expression that people forced to deal with Owen for any length of time tend to acquire. She briefly dips her head, like all of Lowe’s seconds do when they see him. “Nice to see you, Alpha. Everything okay at home?” There’s affection and respect in the words. I read nothing else.

            “For the most part.”

            “Good to hear.” She gives me a curious look. Her eyes briefly dart down, and I don’t have to follow them to know they’re on Lowe’s and my joined hands.

            A thought strikes me like a bolt—he might be using me to make her jealous. I let it poison my brain for a moment, then dismiss it. Lowe would never stoop to those kinds of plays.

            “How lovely,” Owen says drily. “In significantly less wholesome news, no luck on the security footage outside Serena’s place yet. We were hoping to get a good view from the apartment complex in front of hers, but the cameras were tampered with.”

            Lowe frowns. “Only for the date of the break-in?”

            “Correct.”

            I frown. “How?”

            Owen shrugs. “What do you mean?”

            “How did the tampering occur? Was it software? Hardware? Did they paintball the lens or trip the circuit breaker or cut the data cable?”

            “I’m not certain. My guy did mention, but . . .” Owen waves his hand. “Technical witchcraft that nobody could understand aside, it’s clear that—”

            “Jammers,” Gabi says, and smiles when I give her a surprised look.

            “They disrupted the signal?”

            “Likely used a radio frequency detector to figure out the broadcast.”

            It’s the sophisticated way. The one someone with resources would use. Someone who works for powerful people and is looking for clues on the whereabouts of a journalist on the run. It would fit with Lowe’s theory, for sure. “Crafty,” I say.