Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “No clue. Weres don’t get colds.”

            “Stop bragging.”

            “Do you get colds?”

            “Nope, but I’m classy about it.”

            “You’d be classier if you didn’t have peanut butter on your nose.”

            “Damn. Where?”

            He doesn’t say, but comes forward to show me, walking into me until I’m nestled between him and the counter, and . . . am I cornered, here? By a Were? A wolf, the stuff of bogeyman tales?

            Yes.

            Yes, I’m cornered, and no, I’m not scared.

            “Here.” His hand swipes the tip of my nose. He holds his fingertip up to show me the small clump of peanut butter. I should be wondering how it got there to begin with. What I do, instead, is lean forward and lick it off Lowe’s thumb.

            I regret it instantly.

            I don’t regret it at all.

            I contain every pair of opposing feelings as his eyes, pupils expanding in a way mine could never, fix on my mouth in an entranced, absent way.

            I should not have done it. My stomach twists in what feels like pain and something else, something sweet and hot. “Ana’s feeling much better,” I say, hoping that it’ll defuse this thick tension between us.

            We’re a seesaw, Lowe and I. Constantly pushing and pulling for a precarious balance on the brink of this . . . whatever this is that we are always about to fall into. Alternating in chaos.

            “She’s completely healed,” he agrees. We’re too close to be having this conversation. We’re just—really close.

            “Back to her pestering self.”

            He takes a small step back, barely an inch, and I almost cry with relief, or disappointment, or both. “Yeah,” he says, even though there’s no question to answer. It’s punctuation—he’s leaving. He’s about to.

            “Wait,” I blurt out.

            He stops. Doesn’t even ask me why I’m keeping him here, tethered to me. He knows. The atmosphere between us is too awkward and rich and lush for him not to know.

            “Do you—” he starts, with a small, abortive, uncharacteristically insecure gesture of his hand, just as I say, “When did—”

            We fall silent at once, letting the sentences swing between us. The silence swells, triples, and when it reaches critical mass, it bursts inside my head.

            This time I’m the one moving closer. My head swims deliciously. “What’s happening? What is—this thing between us?”

            “I don’t know,” he says. And then. “That was a lie. I do know.”

            I know, too. My stomach is an empty, open ache. “You have a mate.”

            He nods slowly. “It’s never far from my mind.”

            “And I’m a Vampyre.” I have to lick my fangs to make sure that I really am one. Because my people don’t itch to touch his. It’s simply not how things go.

            “You are.” His eyes are on my teeth, and yeah. He doesn’t mind them at all.

            “This can’t be real, can it?”

            He is silent. Like I have to work through the answer on my own, and he cannot do it for me.

            “It just feels real,” I tell him. I’m heated. Glowing. I didn’t think my body was capable of these temperatures. “I’m afraid I’m misinterpreting, maybe.”

            One of his hands, large and warm, curves around my waist, tentative at first, then firm, like a single touch is enough to double his greed. “It’s okay, Misery.” His thumb climbs to the back of my neck, rubbing over the fine hairs at my nape, and I shiver in his arms. “It can just be us,” he whispers.

            Suddenly, I’m not sure that there’s something wrong about the fact that we’re about to kiss. It feels right, for sure. I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I like the idea of my first being special. And Lowe—Lowe is that and more.