Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “Not from a Were, I hope.”

            I regret the words the second they’re out of my mouth. I’m not usually a nervous blabberer, because I’m not usually nervous. One doesn’t serve as the Collateral for a decade without learning a baffling number of anxiety management strategies. And yet.

            “Did you just joke about your people drinking my people dry?”

            I close my eyes. Death would be nice, right now. I’d welcome it with open arms. “It was in terrible taste. I apologize.” I look up at him, and there they are. Those eerie, unearthly, beautiful eyes, glowing at me in the dim lights, a chilling green that borders on feral. I wonder if I’ll get used to them. If one year from now, when this arrangement is complete, I’ll still think them bizarrely lovely.

            I wonder what Serena thought when she first saw them.

            “They’re expecting us,” Moreland says curtly. My apology dangles, not accepted, not rejected.

            “Who?”

            He points at the orchestra. The viola player lifts her bow in the air for a beat, and then the music switches gears. Not Rachmaninoff, but a slow, instrumental rendition of a pop song I’ve heard in line at the grocery store. Did Moreland approve of this? I bet the planner went rogue.

            “First dance,” he says, holding out his hand. His voice is deep, precise, economical. A man who’s used to giving orders and having them answered. I look at his long fingers, remembering how they closed on my arm. That moment of fear. Thing is, I don’t feel a lot, and when I do—

            “Misery,” he says, a trace of impatience in his tone, and my name sounds like a different word in his voice. I take his hand, watch it engulf mine. Follow him onto the dance floor. We had no photographer at the ceremony, but there are a couple here. When we reach the center of the hall, Moreland’s palm splays on my back, where my jumpsuit dips low. His fingers briefly travel down my wrist, brushing against the marking, then wrap around mine. We start swaying to a peal of sparse, half-hearted applause.

            I have never slow-danced before, but it’s not too difficult. Perhaps because my partner is doing most of the work.

            “So.” I glance up, attempting conversation. In these shoes I push six feet, but there’s no towering over this man. “I smell like sewers or something?” It cannot be easy for him, being this close to me.

            He stiffens. Then relaxes. I think he won’t reply until his terse “Or something.”

            I wish I could commiserate, but Vampyres don’t comprehend scents the way other species do. Serena used to point at flowers and spin wild tales of beautiful fragrances, then act shocked that I couldn’t tell them apart. But plants are insignificant to us, and I was just as shocked that she had no awareness of people’s heartbeats. Of the blood coursing through her own veins.

            It’s a pity that I smell foul to Moreland, because his blood is nice. Engulfing. Healthy and earthy and a bit rough. His heartbeat is strong and vibrant, like a caress to the roof of my mouth. I don’t think it’s just a Were thing, because the others here at the wedding seem less inviting. But maybe I just haven’t gotten close enough to—

            “Does your father hate you?”

            “Excuse me?” We’re still swaying. Cameras click around us like insects in the summertime. Maybe I misheard.

            “Your father. I need to know if he hates you.”

            I meet Moreland’s eyes, more baffled than offended. And perhaps a little peeved that I cannot insist that my one living parent gives a shit about me. “Why?”

            “If you’re going to be under my protection, I need to know these things.”

            I cock my head up at him. His face is so . . . not handsome, even though it is, but striking. All-consuming. Like he invented bone structure. “Am I? Under your protection?”

            “You’re my wife.”

            God, it sounds weird. “In name, maybe.” I shrug, and it makes my body brush against his. His eyes do an odd thing, the pupils acting out, contracting and expanding of their own volition. Then they settle on the markings painted on my neck. He seems unwarrantedly taken by them. “I think I’m just a symbol of goodwill between our people. And Collateral.”