Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            He hasn’t moved a muscle, but he sounds genuinely interested, so I continue. “She had horrible nightmares she could never remember. Probably something that happened in the first few years of her life—she had no memories of that period at all.”

            “And what would she do?”

            “She wouldn’t sleep. Would always look exhausted. We were concerned—me and Mrs. Michaels, who was our caregiver at the time, and a nice one at that. We tried white noise machines. Pills. Those red lights that should have facilitated melatonin production but just made the room look like a brothel. Nothing worked. And then we found the solution by chance, and it was the simplest trick.”

            “What was it?”

            “Me.” Lowe’s body tightens. “What she needed was someone she trusted, next to her. So I’d hang out in her room. And scratch her.”

            “Scratch her.” He sounds skeptical.

            “No— Yes, but not what you think. It’s just what we called it. Here—” I lift my hand to his forehead, and after a small hesitation, I press my palm to his hair. It’s at once bristly and soft, not long enough to run my fingers through. I caress it a couple of times, letting my nails brush softly against his scalp, just enough to give him an idea of what Serena used to enjoy, and then pull back to—

            His hands dart up, lightning fast.

            He doesn’t open his eyes, but his fingers close around my wrist with deadly precision. My heart slams into my chest—shit, I’ve overstepped—until he brings the hand back to his head, as though he wants me to . . .

            Oh.

            Oh.

            He doesn’t let go until I resume the scratching. A ball of something swells in my throat. “You’re so much luckier,” I say, hoping a joke will deflate it.

            “Why?” he rasps.

            “I just fed. It reduces the clammy, mollusk feel Serena had to deal with.”

            He doesn’t smile, but his amusement is thick around us. His dark hair is short, so short, and I wonder if he cuts it like that because the upkeep is easier—no need to style it, ever. I think about how much research I put into the best cuts to hide my ears, about the way Serena enjoyed shopping for clothes and makeup that suited her moods. And then imagine Lowe having no time to do any of that. Having no time for himself.

            Like Juno said, his entire life is sacrifice. He was asked for so much, and always said yes, yes, yes.

            Oh, Lowe. No wonder you can’t sleep.

            “You’re not as terrible a husband as you could be,” I say for no particular reason, continuing to caress him. “I’m sorry you had to give up your entire life for your pack.”

            This time he’s definitely smiling. “You did the same.”

            “What?” I tilt my head. “No.”

            “You spent years among the Humans, knowing that if a very flimsy truce was broken, you’d be the first to be killed. Then you spent more years building a life among the Humans—and now here you are, having given that up. Doing stuff for your people, whom you claim to care so little about.”

            “Not for them, for Serena.”

            “Yeah? Then what’s your plan, after you find her? Run away together? Disappear? Send the alliance between the Vampyres and Weres into chaos?”

            It’s not that I haven’t thought that far. I just don’t like to dwell on the answer. “This marriage is just for one year,” I punt.

            “Yeah? Misery, I think you should ask yourself something.” He sounds more tired than I’ve ever heard him.

            “What is that?”

            “If Serena hadn’t disappeared, would you have been able to say no to your father? Or would you have ended up in this marriage anyway?”

            I think about it for a long, long time, watching my fingers trace patterns in Lowe’s hair. And when I think I have an answer—a frustrating, depressing answer—I don’t say it out loud.

            Because Lowe, who suffers from something that’s definitely not pneumonia, is breathing softly, and has sunk into a tranquil sleep.