Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “Cal wasn’t invited. And anyway, I’m not bringing a father of two into that.”

            “But you are going.” Mick’s usually mellow tone hardens. “It’s too dangerous for your most trusted second, but for the Alpha of the pack—”

            “For the Alpha, it’s duty,” Lowe interrupts, conclusive.

            “I’ve been in this pack for over fifty years, and I can promise you that no other Alpha would have agreed to those conditions. You’re going above and beyond and have no self-preservation.”

            I have no idea what the context is, but Mick is probably right. There is something selfless about Lowe, as though when he became Alpha he left behind any trace of himself.

            Or, more accurately, locked it into a drawer.

            “Were those Alphas dealing with internal sedition?” Lowe responds, calm and harsh at once. Mick looks away, more sad than chastised. Ana picks up on it.

            “Lowe?” Her voice is small. “Where are you going this weekend?”

            He smiles at her warmly, his tone instantly softer. “To California.”

            “What’s in California?” I’m glad she asked. Because I was about to, and I’m not entitled to this piece of information.

            “It’s pack territory. An old friend lives there. Uncle Koen will be there, too.”

            “Emery’s no friend, Lowe,” Mick interjects.

            “And that’s precisely why I cannot pass up the opportunity to have access to her house.”

            “It’s not an opportunity. If you could bring Alex or someone else who’s tech-savvy to help you with your plan, yes. But not on your own.”

            “Hang on.” I’m too curious to shut up. “Isn’t Emery Roscoe’s former . . .” I don’t need a reply, not going by the men’s faces. “Oh, shit.”

            Ana chortles.

            “You’re almost disappointingly easy,” I tell her, and she chortles harder, then sneaks around Lowe’s chair to sit on my legs and steal my goldfish. I don’t know what it is about me that says Please make yourself at home on my lap, but I’ll have to fix that. “Lowe, are you really going to meet with this lady?”

            Mick gives me a validated smile. Alex is, as usual, terrified. Lowe’s withering look says: Not you, too, and by the way, who the fuck gave you the right?

            Which, fair.

            “You know Emery is behind everything that is happening,” Mick says.

            “But I have no proof. And until I have indisputable evidence, I will not act against her.”

            “You could. It would be a show of strength.”

            “Not the kind of strength I’m interested in showing.”

            “Max already told you—”

            “A mumbled confession about who he believed sent him when he was under thrall by a Vampyre is unlikely to hold up in a tribunal.” Lowe’s striking face is stony, but I see the fatigue around the edges. It must be tiresome, being a decent person, and I can’t relate. I revel in my moral flexibility. “Meeting Emery on her turf is how I get that evidence.”

            “Or how you get yourself . . .” Mick’s eyes dart to Ana and he doesn’t continue, but the word killed bounces between the adults at the table.

            “Do you really think I cannot hold my own against her guards?” Lowe asks, leaning back in his chair. His lips curve into a smile. He looks less like a diplomatic leader, and more like the cocky, invincible twentysomething young man he is. “Come on, Mick. You’ve seen me fight.”

            Mick sighs. “Just because we haven’t found your limit yet doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

            “Doesn’t mean there is, either.”

            Ana turns on my lap and climbs up my torso like a squirrel, hugging my neck and nuzzling my hair. It’s the most direct physical contact I’ve experienced, ever—to my surprise, not excessively unpleasant. I ask, “Are you sure Emery would agree to meet you, after you . . .” Slaughtered her husband?