Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            His “Ah” is soft and amused.

            “Can you quickly shift? Right now? But keep your distance, please. Animals tend to hate me.”

            “Nope.”

            “Why?” I sit upright, covering my breasts with my arms. “Oh my God, does it hurt, shifting?”

            “No.” He seems offended.

            “Phew. How long does it take?”

            “Depends.”

            “How long does it take for you, on average?”

            “A few seconds.”

            “Is it another Alpha thing? And your motor proteins are suuuuper dominant?”

            His glare tells me I’m on the right track. “Shifting is not a party trick, Misery.”

            “Clearly it’s not a supersecret deal, either, because I’ve seen Cal as a—” I gasp. “I got it.”

            “Got what?”

            I smile. Fangs out. “You don’t want to show me because your wolfy coat is hot pink.”

            “Not wolfy coat, just coat.”

            I splash him with my foot. “Is it purple?”

            He flinches and screws his eyes shut.

            “Is it glittery?” I splash some more. “You have to tell me if it’s glittery—”

            His fingers close around my ankle, vise tight. “You done?” He wipes his eyes with the back of his free hand, and it comes away wet.

            My calf is pale against Lowe’s skin, slick with water and soap suds. When his grip slips, he turns his wrist to adjust it, and it transitions into something that’s more in the realm of a caress.

            Okay.

            So.

            We’ve been touching a lot, since yesterday.

            We are touching a lot.

            “About tonight,” he starts. New topic, but his hand stays firmly in place. “I talked to Koen. He’ll buy us some time. Distract Emery.”

            “How?”

            “We’ll see. Koen’s a creative thinker.”

            “Does he know what we’re planning?”

            “Not yet.” He lowers my trapped foot under the water but doesn’t let go of my ankle, as though he doesn’t trust me to behave. Or as though he doesn’t want to. “He might suspect, but he knows better than to ask. Plausible deniability.”

            “Wise. Hey, why is Koen here?”

            “Emery is his mother’s sister.”

            “His aunt?”

            “Correct. She was originally in the Northwest pack, then moved when she met Roscoe. That’s why I was sent to him.”

            “Wow. And he’s still going to help you?”

            “He is no fan of Roscoe. Or his own family.”

            So relatable. “After dinner, then.”

            “You’re going to say you need to feed.”

            “And you’ll come with me because you’re my worried and possessively protective Alpha husband, and I have terrible orientation skills. All we need to do is get to the office, plant the devices, and get out.” I bite into my lower lip. “I could also do it on my own.”

            “I’m not sending you out there on your own.”

            I think—I’m not positive, because of the water, and the foam, and the sheer improbability of it—but I think Lowe might be brushing his fingertips against the arch of my sole.

            A tactile hallucination.