Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            Lowe says nothing. He stares, impenetrable. His pale, decent, kind eyes retreat into something that offers no clarity.

            “It happens between mates, right? Knotting, I mean.” Biologically, it makes sense in so many ways. Honestly, nothing else does. “It’s me, isn’t it?” I attempt a wobbly smile. It’s okay. I know it. I feel it, too. “I’m your mate. That’s why . . .”

            “Misery.” He’s not looking at me, but at some spot around my feet. And his tone is like I’ve never heard it before: Unreadable. Empty.

            “That’s why, right?”

            He’s silent for heavy seconds. “Misery.” My name, again, but this time there’s a world of hurt behind the word, like I’m torturing him.

            “I’m not . . . I feel the same way you do,” I add quickly, not wanting him to think that I’m accusing him of something beyond his control. “Or maybe not—maybe I don’t have the hardware. Maybe only another Were could feel the same. But I really do like you. More than that. I haven’t quite figured it all out, because I don’t have much experience with feelings. But maybe you think that this frightens the shit out of me, and . . .” My voice weakens, because Lowe has lifted his gaze, and I can see the way he’s looking at me.

            He understands, I think. He knows. He feels exactly the way I do.

            But then his expression shutters. And his tone can only be described as compassionate. “I’m sorry if I’ve ever given you the wrong impression about what is happening between us.”

            My assurance wobbles, when I was secure in his feelings for me till a moment ago. I shake my head. “Lowe, come on. I know Gabi isn’t your mate.”

            “She isn’t.” He presses his lips together. “But I’m afraid you reached the wrong conclusions.”

            “Lowe.”

            He shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Misery.”

            “Lowe, it’s fine. You can—”

            “We should stop discussing this now.”

            “No.” I let out a laugh. “I’m right. I know that I’m right.”

            There is something about the way he stares at me. Like he knows he’s about to hurt me, and himself in the process, and the thought is simply unacceptable. Like I’m leaving him no choice.

            “You said that a mate grabs you by the stomach, and—”

            “Misery.” He speaks harshly this time, like he’s scolding a child. “You should stop filling your mouth with Were words you cannot understand.”

            My throat falls into my stomach. “Lowe.”

            “It was a mistake, telling you about the concept of mates.” His voice is detached, like he’s reading from a script and sucking every emotion out of his performance. “It’s not something any non-Were can fully comprehend, let alone a Vampyre. But I understand how appealing it might be, for someone who struggles with belonging.”

            “What?”

            “Misery.” He sighs again. “You have been abandoned and mistreated your entire life. By your family, by your people, by your only friend. You are fascinated with the idea of eternal love and companionship, but that just doesn’t reflect what I feel for you.”

            My heart cracks. The ground beneath my feet undulates as I come to terms with this version of Lowe. Who, apparently, would take things I told him about my past and use them against me. “You . . .” I shake my head, stupefied by how much his words hurt. Even when they cannot be true. “You’re just trying to push me away. Tell me,” I order, stubborn all of a sudden. I feel like a bumbling mess. Not myself. Every instinct screams at me to retreat, but this is an unacceptable, obvious lie. “Tell me that you’re not in love with me,” I challenge. “That you don’t want to be with me.”

            He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m sorry,” he says, dispassionate, with a hint of condescension. Some pity. Sorrow. “I think you’re very attractive. And I enjoy spending time with you. I enjoyed—” His voice almost breaks. “I enjoyed fucking you. And I wish you the best, but. . . .” He shakes his head.