She is fearless, and the thought terrifies him.

T

 

HIS 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.”

“Who have you fed from?”

I straighten my face. Even more. “I didn’t say I fed from someone.”

“No. You asked whether there can be any negative consequences if a live source is fed upon, and I brilliantly deduced it. Because you’ve never exhibited any curiosity on the topic before, and—I’m not a damn idiot. Who?”

I let out a deep breath. “Who do you think?”

He face-palms. “Your husband. Your Were husband. Your Alpha Were husband.”

“Please.”

“Did you force him?” “What? No.”

His curse is not soft. “Do not tell Father this happened.” “Why?”

“He’d try to exploit it.”

“How is— In what way is there anything to exploit about this?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Misery, do you know nothing?” “What should I know?”

“How did you not just pick up stuff growing up?”

The noise that comes out of my throat has Ludwig checking in on me.

“From whom? From my Human caregivers?”

“Okay.” His hands lift, a silent order for me to stay quiet while he collects himself. I consider hanging up on him and asking Father out of spite. “It’s not normal for him to let you feed. For any Were to let a Vampyre feed.”

“Maybe Lowe doesn’t know that.”

“Our species have been enemies for centuries. Do you think they didn’t grow up thinking that being sucked on by a leech is the highest level of defilement? Do you think using his blood to keep alive the people who killed his ancestors is something his pack will be okay with?”

I remember Emery’s disgusted expression. Her seconds’ gasps. Even Koen had to suppress his initial shock at seeing my marks on Lowe’s neck.

And Lowe, pulling me to himself after I said I wasn’t okay.

“Lowe is different.”

“Clearly. And clearly this is something you should bring to your grave.

It’s obvious that there is some . . . friendship here.”

I think about it for a minute, then nod.

“So he took a liking to you.” He rubs his forehead. “This is weird. I’m glad you’re alive and maybe going to stay that way, but—”

“It’s weirder than that. When I fed from him . . .”

“Misery.” He gives me a blistering look. “I went through puberty in Vampyre territory. I know exactly what happened when you fed from him. Please, do not continue. People who shared a placenta for nine months should not talk about this stuff.”

Am I flushing? I am. “We’re dizygotic twins, which means that we never shared a placenta or an umbilical cord. A womb at best, really.”

“Still, do not subject me to a retelling.” Owen tips his head back and looks at the ceiling.

“Can you just tell me if there will be any negative consequences for Lowe? I want to be sure I didn’t harm him.”

Owen sighs. “As long as you didn’t take too much, he’ll be fine. And you’ll probably be fine, too? Honestly, there aren’t that many case studies of Vampyres feeding from Weres.”

“Okay.” Phew. “Thank you for letting me know. Have a good life. I’m hanging up now—”

“Misery, listen carefully. There is a reason our species decided to transition from live feeding as soon as the technology to safely draw and store blood became available. Drinking from a live source is not just something that’s hard to tease apart from sex. It has hormonal and biological consequences that are trivial in the moment but might build up in the long run. That’s why it’s been discouraged among Vampyres for centuries—we need to fuck as many people as we can and reproduce, not form bonds. Repeat feedings create complex dynamics that . . .” He stops abruptly, shaking his head. His expression has softened, and I wonder if he has done it before. If it’s something he’d want to do with someone else. “Don’t do it again, Misery. Be his friend. Build a chicken coop with him. F**k him, if you want. But do not feed from Lowe Moreland again.”

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?”

“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.

I’m unsteady. Muddled. Off-balance. But it’s normal. Who wouldn’t be, next to someone like him, someone who’d carry them through? So I stretch on the tips of my toes, leaning into his touch, and I feel shaky.

I feel ready. I feel happy.

I feel light-headed, as though I’m made of glass, about to shatter into pieces. My limbs have never been this heavy, and I wish I could just drop to the ground.

Yes, I think. I’ll just let myself do that.

“Misery.” The mix of worry and fear in his voice is unexpected. “Why are you so—”

Searing pain stabs throughout my body, and that’s when the world turns pitch-dark.