Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            But I don’t think he cares. Honestly, I doubt he’s listening. He nods robotically, and once he follows me inside my room, his gaze fixes on the night outside the window. On something that might not even be there.

            There is an unpleasant twist in my throat. I sit on the bare mattress and softly call, “Lowe?”

            He doesn’t respond. His eyes, pale and otherworldly, stick to the darkness.

            “Is there . . . Are you okay?”

            I’m afraid he’ll ignore this question, too. But a few minutes later, he shakes his head. Slowly, he turns and comes to stand in front of me. “What if you hadn’t been here?” he murmurs.

            “I . . . What?”

            “If you hadn’t been here, with your knowledge of Human anatomy.” His jaw works. “I’d have had to choose between her health and her safety.”

            “Ah.” I see now where all of this is coming from. I see it, and I feel it, deep in the pit of my stomach, a stone sinking heavily. “It’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. It’s probably just the flu.”

            “What if next time it’s something more serious? Something she needs extensive Human medical care for?”

            “It won’t. Like I said, she’ll be okay—”

            “Will she?” he asks, in a tone that makes it impossible for me to lie.

            The truth is, I don’t know. I have no idea whether Ana will be okay. I have no idea whether Lowe and I will be okay. I have no idea whether Serena is alive. I have no fucking idea whether a war is inevitable, whether my people care enough about me not to leave me here as its first casualty, whether every single choice I’ve made since the day I turned eighteen was a mistake.

            I have no idea what will happen, I have no idea what has happened, and it’s terrifying. I respect Lowe, this man who feels so similar to me, this man I’ve known less than a handful of weeks and yet cannot quite make myself not trust. I respect him too much to lie to him, or to lie to myself in his presence.

            So I say, “I’m not sure,” and it’s barely a whisper, but he hears me. He nods, and I nod, and when he sinks to his knees, when he buries his face in my lap, I welcome him. Let my hands run over his soft hair. Feel his deep inhale. His shoulders, so broad and strong, rise and fall. I slide my hand down the back of his neck, inside his shirt, hoping my cool skin will be as soothing as his heat is to me.

            “Misery,” he sighs, and his breath warms the skin of my belly through the fabric of the dress, and I’m still alone, still different, still mostly on my own, but maybe a little less than usual. His fingers close softly around my ankle, the metal of his wedding band hot against skin and bones, and for the first time in more than I can remember, I feel held.

            I’m here, I say, only in my head. With you.

            We stay like that for longer than I can keep track of.





CHAPTER 19




                             She is fearless, and the thought terrifies him.





This question you just asked me . . . I don’t like it.”

            Not rolling my eyes at Owen requires a degree of control over my ocular muscles I didn’t know I had. Normally I wouldn’t bother with civility, but I need my brother to get me some answers.

            On the plus side, Ludwig is not paying attention to my call. Earlier today, when I found him in the sunroom trimming a rose plant and asked whether I could chat with my brother, he looked at me like I was asking for permission to get a liger tattoo. “I don’t care. Lowe said your movements are not to be restricted. Call whoever you like.” A pause. “Maybe avoid phone sex, but really, it’s up to you.”

            “Is phone sex even a thing anymore?”

            “Pretty sure all kinds of sex are a thing, and will be till the sun swallows the Earth.” He went back to pruning, then added, “If you’re ordering pizza, get extra large.”

            I’m not sure why a Vampyre would order pizza, but I’d love to be on the phone with some bored teenager trying to upsell me some garlic knots. And not at the mercy of a less-than-loving brother’s judgment.

            “Your dislike breaks my heart,” I tell him in the Tongue, straight-faced. “Please answer anyway.”