Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            At my future husband.

            He stands at the end of the path, turned away from me, listening to what someone is whispering in his ear—his best man, perhaps. I can’t get a good look at his face, but I know what to expect from the picture I was given weeks ago: handsome, striking, unsmiling. His hair is short, a rich brown cut to a buzz; his suit is black, well fitted across his broad shoulders. He’s the only man in the room not wearing a tie, and yet he manages to look elegant anyway.

            Maybe we share a stylist. As good a starting point for a marriage as any, I suppose.

            “Be careful with him,” Father whispers, lips barely moving. “He is very dangerous. Do not cross him.”

            What every girl wants to hear ten feet from the altar, especially when the hard line of her groom’s shoulders already looks cross. Impatient. Annoyed. He doesn’t bother glancing in my direction, as though I’m inconsequential, as though there are other, better things for him to do with his time. I wonder what the best man is whispering in his ear. Maybe a mirror copy of the warnings I got.

            Misery Lark? No need to be careful. She’s not particularly dangerous, so feel free to cross her. What is she gonna do? Chuck her lint roller at you?

            I snort out a soft laugh, and that’s a mistake. Because my future husband hears it, and finally turns to me.

            My stomach drops.

            My step falters.

            The murmurs quiet.

            In the photo I was shown, the groom’s eyes looked an ordinary, unsurprising blue. But as they meet mine, I realize two things. The first is that I was wrong, and his gaze is actually an odd pale green that borders on white. The second is that Father was right: this man is very, very dangerous.

            His eyes roam over my face, and I immediately suspect that he must not have been given photos. Or maybe he just wasn’t curious enough about his bride to check them out? Either way, he’s not pleased with me, and that’s obvious. Too bad I’ve cut my teeth on disappointing people, and I’m not about to start caring now. It’s on him if he doesn’t like what he’s seeing.

            I square my shoulders. A small distance separates us, and I let my eyes pin his as I close it, which is how I see it all happen in real time.

            Pupils, widening.

            Brow, furrowing.

            Nostrils, flaring.

            He watches me like I’m something made of maggots and takes one deep breath, slow. Then another, sharp, the moment I’m delivered to the altar. His expression widens into something that looks, for an instant, indecipherably shaken, and I knew it, I knew that Weres didn’t like Vampyres, but this feels beyond that. It feels like pure, hard, personal contempt.

            Tough shit, buddy, I think, lifting my chin. I step forward, again, until we are standing in front of each other, this side of too close.

            Two strangers who only just met. About to get married.

            The music wanes. The guests sit. My heart’s a sluggish drum, even slower than usual, because of the way the groom looms over me. Leaning forward to study me like I’m an abstract painting. I watch his chest heave hungrily, as if to . . . inhale me. Then he pulls back, licks his lips, and stares.

            He stares and stares and stares.

            The silence stretches. The officiant clears his throat. The courtyard breaks into bouts of puzzled mumbles that slowly rise to a sticky, familiar friction. I notice that the best man has unsheathed his claws. Behind me, Vania, the head of my father’s guards, is showing her fangs. And the Humans, of course, are reaching for their guns.

            All through that, my future husband still stares.

            So I step closer and murmur, “I don’t care how little you like this, but if you want to avoid a second Aster—”

            His hand comes up lightning fast to close around my upper arm, and the warmth of his skin is a shock to my system, even through the fabric of my sleeve. His pupils contract into something different, something animal. I instinctively try to wriggle free of his grasp, and . . . it’s a mistake.

            My heel catches on a cobblestone and I lose my balance. The groom stops my fall with an arm snaked around my waist, and a combination of gravity and his sheer determination wedges me between him and the altar, his front pressing against mine. He cages me, pins me, and stares down at me like he forgot where he is and I’m something to be consumed.