Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

CHAPTER 16




                             He’s been picturing her during her baths. He’s been having filthy, unspeakable thoughts. He’s too tired to keep them at bay.





The following day, Lowe disappears to do Were things. I wake up in the late afternoon with only vague memories of having crawled into the built-in closet, and find a note tucked under the doors. It’s a piece of white paper, folded once and then again.

            On a run, it says.

            And, on a new line: Be good.

            Followed by: L. J. Moreland.

            I snort. For unclear reasons, I don’t toss it in the trash bin, but slip it in the external pocket of my suitcase.

            I draw a bath and lower myself into the tepid water. Holding on to garbage is dumb, but I come by it honestly: it’s what Serena used to do with wrappers of rare import candy bars. A maniac-worthy move, in my humble opinion, the way she’d pin them to the wall. A surefire method to spot a future serial murderer, together with pyromania and torturing small animals. When I look at the wrappers, I remember the taste, she told me when we were thirteen and I tried to throw them away. It led to me rolling my eyes, which led to us not talking for two days, which led to me passive-aggressively littering our shared spaces with used blood bags, which led to flies, which led to an explosive showdown in which she couldn’t decide whether to call me a leech or a bitch and blurted out “Bleetch,” which led to us cracking up and remembering that we liked each other.

            “Misery?” Lowe’s voice pulls me back. I’m staring vacantly at the stained windows, a faint smile on my lips. “Where are you?”

            “Bathroom!”

            “Are you dressed?”

            I look down and shift the foam around strategically. “Yup.” The door opens a moment later.

            Lowe and I regard each other from across the room—him blinking, me staring—with similarly dumbfounded expressions. He clears his throat, twice. Then remembers that looking away is an option. “You said you were dressed.”

            “I’m wearing my modesty froth. You, on the other hand.”

            He frowns. “I’m wearing jeans.”

            Plus a healthy layer of sweat, and nothing else. The curtains are pulled, but sheer. The incoming light is warm, and tints Lowe’s skin a pretty gold—his wide shoulders, his broad, heavily muscled chest. He’s still glowing with the flush of being outside, in nature, and he looks healthy, even with more scars than anyone his age should have—narrow, thin stripes and knotty twists. So I like looking at my husband who’s a different species and fated to be someone else’s mate. Whatever. Take me to court. Impound my nonexistent assets.

            “I’ll overlook your nudity if you overlook mine,” I offer.

            Lowe’s hand comes up to rub his nape. “I took off my shirt before shifting and lost it. Lemme find a clean one.”

            “I don’t care. Plus, you’re sweaty and gross.”

            His eyebrow cocks. “Gross?”

            I shrug, which maybe misplaces the foam. I’m not sure, nor am I going to check, as the answer could be mortifying. “So, you went frolicking in the mud with Emery?”

            He snorts. “With Koen. He arrived early this morning.”

            “That sounds fun.” He got to hang out for a couple of hours with someone he clearly loves and trusts. Let his guard down.

            “It was.”

            It must be why his eyes are dancing, at once boyish and animated. Why he seems younger than last night. Why, when he walks inside and sits by my feet, on the edge of the tub, he looks like he’s been smiling.

            “You know,” I muse, relaxing into the water, “I think I want to see you.”

            He looks down at his body. “You want to see me.”

            “No, not naked.”

            His head tilts in confusion.

            “As a wolf.”