Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “She extended the invitation,” Mick says, resigned.

            “No way.”

            “As is customary for the mate of the previous Alpha. To guarantee a peaceful succession.”

            “Wow.” Ana starts fidgeting and reaches out for Lowe, but he’s exchanging a long stare with Mick and doesn’t notice. I pat his arm to get his attention and he gives me a wide-eyed, disturbed look, like I tried to scorch him with a cattle iron. Does he think my smell is going to rub off? He’s way more skunk adjacent than I’ll ever be.

            “I think it’s a trap,” Mick decrees.

            Lowe shrugs. The movement delights Ana, so he repeats it. “I’m willing to risk it.”

            “But—”

            “My mind is made up.” He smiles at Ana and shifts register. “I’ll have someone look into bouncy castles,” he adds, and the rest of the dinner conversation is just that—Ana planning the cake she’ll buy for my “birthday,” Alex concerned that my fangs will pierce the inflatables, Lowe looking at us with an amused expression. We stay longer than the time it takes to finish the meal—a common occurrence, apparently, spending time chatting about nothing of particular importance. Weres’ social customs are different, and they have me wondering how Lowe’s mate is faring among my people. She left friends behind, family, a partner. Who is she having around-the-table conversations with? I picture her trying to chat with Owen—and Owen excusing himself to go capture a mountain lion to set after her.

            I shake my head and tune back in to the conversation. Ana laughs, Lowe grins, Alex smiles. And then there’s Mick, who stares at me with a worried expression on his weathered face.





CHAPTER 13




                             He tries to avoid thinking about what he’d do to her father if only it wouldn’t cause the worst diplomatic incident of the current century.





Ana was right: it isn’t that difficult, climbing up to the roof, even for someone with the hand-eye coordination of a platypus.

            I.e., me.

            It takes me less than fifteen seconds to get there, and it’s vaguely empowering, the way I never even feel like my brains will end up splattered in the plumbago flower bed. Once I’m sitting on the tiles, vaguely uncomfortable but not willing to admit it, I close my eyes and breathe in, then out, then in, letting the breeze play with my hair, welcoming the tickle of the night sky. The waves wash gently over the shore. Every once in a while, something splashes on the lake. I don’t even mind the bugs, I tell myself. If I persevere, I’ll believe it. That’s what I’m failing at when Lowe arrives.

            He doesn’t notice me right away, and I get to observe him as he gracefully lifts himself up the eave. He stands on an edge that should be terrifying, lifting a hand to his eyes and pressing thumb and index fingers into them, so hard he must see stars. Then he lets his arm drop to his side and he exhales once, slowly.

            This, I think, is Lowe. Not Lowe the Alpha, Lowe the brother, Lowe the friend, or the son, or the unfortunate husband of the equally unfortunate wife. Just: Lowe. Tired, I think. Lonely, I assume. Angry, I bet. And I don’t want to disturb his rare moment alone, but the breeze lifts, blowing in his direction and carrying my scent.

            He instantly spins around. To me. And when his eyes become all pupils, I lift my hand and awkwardly wave.

            “Ana told me about the roof,” I say, apologetic. I’m intruding on a cherished private moment. “I can leave . . .”

            He shakes his head stoically. I swallow a laugh.

            “If you sit here”—I point to my right—“you’ll be between me and the wind. No bouillabaisse smell.”

            His lips twitch, but he makes his way to the spot I was pointing at, his large body folding next to mine, far enough to avoid accidental touches. “What do you even know about bouillabaisse?”

            “As it’s not hemoglobin or peanut based, nothing. So.” I clap my hands. The cicadas quiet, then resume their singing after a disoriented pause. “Tell me if I got it right: You’ll use your meeting with Emery as an excuse to plant some spyware or interceptor that will allow you to monitor her communications and gain proof that she’s leading the Loyals. But you are going into enemy territory alone, and have the computer skills of an octogenarian Luddite, which puts you at great risk. Actually, no need to tell me if I’m right, I already know. When are you plunging to your imminent death? Tomorrow or Friday?”