Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            The irritation of being told what to do by my useless brother sticks with me the entire night. I’m still miffed hours later, when I wander into the kitchen after reading a story to Ana, about an annoying llama who’s being deservedly bullied by a goat.

            The place is dark and deserted, so I open my fridge and take out the jar of peanut butter. It’s not like I planned to feed from Lowe ever again. Nor do I think he’d appreciate it, given the questionable side effects. I’m here to find Serena, and I’ve not forgotten. But Owen has no right to—

            “The man you and Alex are looking for. He’s Ana’s father, isn’t he?”

            “Yeah.” I shrug mechanically, dipping the tip of a spoon in the peanut butter. “I figured it’d be the most likely way Serena—” I turn around, abruptly realizing that I’m not having a conversation with myself anymore. Lowe stands by the table, arms crossed. Eyes veiled with something. “When did you get here?”

            “Just now.”

            “Oh.” We haven’t really talked since two nights ago, when we awkwardly untangled from each other after Ana woke up and called for a glass of water. He stood in front of me, as earnest and shaken as I felt, and then left to take care of her. I slipped into my closet, under the mound of pillows and blankets, smiling a little when I overheard them talking about the pink giraffe in hushed tones. They—okay, Ana—named her Sparkles 2.

            Yesterday was some sort of hearing day, with lots of Weres coming over to bring concerns, advice, requests to their Alpha. I remained very out of the way for that, but most of the meetings happened in the pier area, and from my window it was fascinating, witnessing the span of Lowe’s responsibilities. I couldn’t help overhearing how warmly and easily he interacted with pack members, and how many of them lingered just to exchange a joke or to mention how relieved they are that Roscoe is gone.

            I guess I felt envious. Maybe I, too, wanted a minute with the Alpha. Maybe during our trip I got used to having him nearby.

            “Ana’s father. Why?” He talks like we’re past preambles, and I think we might be.

            “Why not?”

            He lifts one eyebrow.

            “What if he did know? What if he did believe your mother eventually? What if he told someone else?”

            He tilts his head, curious and wolflike, and hums for me to continue.

            “Serena was a lot of things, but computer savvy wasn’t one of them. Nothing as tragic as you”—I power through Lowe’s glare—“but if I wasn’t able to find traces of Ana while snooping around, it’s very unlikely she came across it on her own. Which means that someone must have told her, and we need to figure out who.” I shake my head, marveling for the millionth time at Ana’s existence. She’s here. She’s perfect. She’s like nothing I’ve ever conceived of before. How the fuck did Serena get embroiled with her? The theory I keep coming back to is someone pitching Ana’s story to a hungry young journalist. But the Serena I know would never, never go public with Ana’s identity. “Lowe, if it makes you uncomfortable, if you feel like this is intruding on your mother’s privacy, I’m okay with pursuing this one on my own.”

            “It doesn’t. What you’re saying makes sense, and I wish I’d thought of it sooner.”

            “Okay. Well, glad to have you on board. Juno did say that we make a good team.”

            “And you replied that—”

            “Who even remembers?” I gesture breezily, and feel my face slowly widen into a smug grin, one with fangs. He smiles back, small and warm. And then we seem to reach an impasse: I’m not sure what to say, neither is he, and the events of the last time, no, two times we were together finally catch up with us.

            I’m no coward, but I don’t think I can bear it.

            I’ve been wanting to be in his presence, but now I’m not sure what to do with him. So I dip my spoon in the peanut butter jar once more, just to keep busy, and stuff it in my mouth. “Well, I think I’m overdue for my nightly bath, just to avoid smelling like phlegm. After that I have a hot date with Alex, so—”

            “Does phlegm smell?” he asks.

            “I . . . Does it?”