Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “Can I come into the closet with you?”

            She has been visiting a lot, but usually doesn’t ask for permission—just climbs next to me and plays the little games I code for her on the fly. Tonight seems different. “Fine, but no cover hogging.”

            “Okay,” she says. Two minutes later, not only has she stolen my duvet, but she also appropriated my pillow. Pest. “Why don’t you sleep in a bed?”

            “ ’Cause I’m a Vampyre.” She accepts the explanation. Probably because she accepts me. Like Serena used to, and no one else ever. I turn the page, and we’re silent for three more minutes, her breath hot and humid against my cheek.

            “Usually Lowe stays human and hangs out with me when they’re all gone,” she says eventually. Her voice is small, and I know why. Alex returned yesterday, but Lowe is still out of town. That’s why Ana sounds like something she rarely is: sad.

            I put down the book and turn to her. “Are you saying I’m not as good company as Lowe?”

            “You’re not.” I glare, but soften when she asks, “When will I be able to shift, too?”

            Shit. “I don’t know.”

            “Misha can do it already.”

            “I’m sure there are things you can do that Misha can’t.”

            She ponders the matter. “I’m really good at braids.”

            “There you go.” Pretty trivial skill, but.

            “Can I braid your hair?”

            “Absolutely fucking no.”

            A couple of hours later, half a dozen braids pull at my scalp, and Ana is snoring softly with her head in my lap. Her heartbeat is sweet, delicate, a butterfly finding a good landing flower, and fuck children for being little assholes who manipulate people into wanting to protect them. I hate that I curve my body around hers when I hear heavy, hurried steps through the walls. And I hate that when my bedroom door opens, I reach for the knife I stole from the kitchen and stashed under my pillow.

            I’m ready to kill to defend her. This is Ana’s fault. Ana is forcing me to fucking kill—

            Lowe crouches at the entrance of my closet, his pale green eyes furious in the semidarkness.

            “Did you know, my dear wife, that when I came home during a full moon and could not locate my sister, I was ready to destroy my entire pack and torture all the Weres guarding this house for their negligence?” His whisper is pure, ominous threat.

            I shrug. “No.”

            “I have been looking for her.”

            “And this is my fault, why?” I make a show of blinking at him, and he closes his eyes, clearly gathering the strength to not butcher me, and clearly only because his sister is currently on me.

            “Is she okay?” he asks.

            “Yes. I am the victim here,” I hiss, pointing at the mess on my head.

            His eyes travel over the braids, abruptly stopping on the visible tips of my ears. I usually hide them, just to avoid upsetting people with my otherness, and the way Lowe stares at them—first with hypnosis-like intensity, then abruptly glancing away—only reinforces that resolution.

            “I think Ana might want to become a hairdresser. You should encourage that.”

            “A better job than mine, for sure.”

            No arguing that. Especially when I notice the wound on his forearm—four parallel claw marks. It doesn’t seem fresh, but there’s still some green blood encrusted on it, and it smells . . .

            Whatever.

            “Was it the Loyals? You were gone for a while.” I don’t even mind admitting that I noticed. I’m sure he’s aware I don’t have a particularly fulfilling routine.

            “Regular internal pack business. Then a meeting with Maddie, the Human governor-elect. And several Vampyre councilmembers—your father included.”

            “Yikes.”