She told him Vampyres do not dream. And yet, once her midday rest is over and the evening approaches, her sleep becomes fitful, agitated. His touch seems to comfort her, and the thought fills him with pride and purpose.

S

ERENA ARRIVED AT THE COLLATERAL RESIDENCE AT THE END OF A

pleasantly mild January, many months after I first moved in, and came of age at the beginning of an unpleasantly wet April, spent crunching

numbers to see how long the transitional sum of money allotted to her by the Human-Vampyre Bureau would stretch in the real world. The rain ticked and ticked, incessant against the windowpanes. We packed our bags and tried to decide what pieces of the past decade to bring into our new lives, sifting through memories, splitting apart the ones we hated from the ones we still hated but could not bear to let go.

That’s when he arrived: a child of eight, the new Collateral, sent from the Vampyres for his official vesting ceremony. He was escorted by Dr. Averill and several other councilors I recalled meeting at various diplomatic relations. A sea of lilac eyes. Conspicuously, not the boy’s parents’.

It was a sign that we were taking too long to vacate the premises, but we didn’t speed up. Instead, Serena stared at the child roaming the spotless hallways in which we’d skinned our knees, fought over hide-and-seek rules, practiced less-than-video-worthy choreographies, ranted about the casual cruelty of our caregivers, wondered if we’d ever fit in somewhere, panicked over how to keep in touch after the end of our time together.

“Why are they always children?” she asked me.

“He must be related to someone important.” I shrugged. “That’s how you make the Collateral a deterrent, by taking the heir to a prominent family. Someone who’s valued by a person in power.”

She snorted. “They haven’t met your father.” “Ouch,” I said with a laugh.

The child heard it and wandered our way, eyes lingering on my mouth, as though he suspected I might be like him. When he approached us, Serena dropped to her knees to level with him. “If you don’t want to be here,” she said, “if you’d rather come with us, just say the word.”

I don’t think she had a plan—not even a contrived, improbable one only for show. And I don’t know how we would have rescued—abducted?—the child if he’d asked us to whisk him away. Where would we have kept him? How would we have protected him?

But it’s who Serena was. Badass. Caring. Committed to doing the right thing.

The child said, “This is an honor.” He sounded rehearsed, too formal for his years. Not at all like I did when I was nine and begged Father to let me go back to Vampyre territory over, and over, and over again. “I am to be the Collateral, and that is a privilege.” He turned around and left.

I was of age, and finally free, and chose not to attend his ceremony.

This is not a core memory for me. I barely ever recall it, but I’m thinking about it now, awake just before sundown. Perhaps because of what came after the child left us: Serena, furiously determined to burn down the entire world—the Vampyres, the Humans, and whoever else made themselves an accomplice of the Collateral system.

I listened to her rant without quite understanding her, because the most I could feel was resignation. There was little fight left in me, and I simply couldn’t afford to spend it on something hopeless and unchangeable when waking up every morning in a hostile world was already so exhausting. Her anger was admirable, but I didn’t get it then.

I get it now, though. In the fuzzy, yellow light filtering into my closet and splattering over the walls, in the worn-out ache that has nested in my

bones—I get her anger now. Something within me must have changed, but I still feel like a fairly accurate version of myself: exhausted, but furious. Above all, glad to be alive. Because I have something to do. Something I care for. People I want to keep safe.

And I need you to care about one single fucking thing, Misery, one thing that’s not me.

Well, Serena, you’re still part of this, whether you want it or not. But there’s Ana, too. And Lowe, who really needs someone to take care of him. In fact, I should go to him.

Standing takes me several tries. He’s not in his room, so I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and make my way downstairs. The trip feels five times longer than usual, but when I walk into the living room, he’s there, surrounded by over a dozen people.

His seconds, all of them. A few of them I know, but most I’m seeing for the first time. It must be a meeting, because everyone looks pinch-eyed and serious. A handsome Were with cornrows is saying something about supplies, and I catch the tail end of his explanation, see several people nod, and then lose track when a familiar voice asks a follow-up question.

Because it’s Lowe’s.

The rest of the room fades. I sink into the doorframe and stare at his familiar face, the dark shadows under his clear eyes and the stubble he hasn’t bothered shaving. He speaks with patience and authority, and I find myself lingering, listening to the rhythm of his deep voice if not to the content, my marrow-deep exhaustion soothed at last.

Then he stops. His body tenses as he turns, at once intensely focused on me. Everyone else stares, too, not quite with the thinly veiled distrust I’d expect from them.

“You should go,” Lowe commands somberly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, yeah.” I flush. I’m acutely aware that I’m half naked and crashing an important pack meeting that’s probably about how to handle their never- ending conflict with my people. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” But he’s crossing to me, and when the seconds stand, I realize that I’m not the one being dismissed.

Lowe is in his usual human form, and I wonder whether I hallucinated my encounter with the white wolf. His seconds walk past us, some nodding at me on their way out, a few patting my back, all wishing me well. I’m unsure what to say until Lowe and I are finally alone. “So.” I gesture at myself with a flourish. “It appears that I survived.”

He nods gravely. “My felicitations.” “Why, thank you. How long was I out?” “Five days.”

I close my eyes. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” There is a microcosm in the way he says the word. I want to explore it, but I’m distracted by the slight twitch in his fingers. Like he’s actively stopping himself from reaching out.

“Are we—you . . . at war? With the Vampyres?”

He shakes his head. “It came close. The council was not happy.” “Aw. I bet Father was heartbroken.” Not.

Lowe’s set jaw tells me how perfectly fine Father was. “Once we were sure that you’d pull through, Averill pointed out to the council that the poison is toxic to Weres, too, and that since you ingested it through Were food, it’s unlikely that it was meant for you to begin with.”

“Oh, God.” I hide my face into the doorjamb. “Does Father know about the peanut butter?”

“Is that what worries you?”

“Not sure what it says about me, but yeah.” I sigh. “Was it meant for Ana?”

“No way to be sure. But she’s the only one in the house who eats it regularly, aside from you.”

I squeeze my eyes, too worn out to deal with the anger sweeping over me. “How is she?”

“Safe. Away from here.”

“Where?” It occurs to me that it might be a secret. “Actually, you don’t have to tell me. It’s probably confidential.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “She’s with Koen. And yes, it’s confidential. No one else knows.”

“Oh.” I massage the curve of my neck. It’s a level of trust I cannot fathom. Not because I’d ever tell anyone, but because he’s aware that I wouldn’t, not even if my life depended on it. I care, and he knows.

“Was it Emery? The Loyals?”

“I don’t know,” he says carefully. “I can’t think of anyone else having a motive, let alone the resources for this.”

“. . . but?”

“All of Emery’s communications are monitored. We have found evidence that she and her people are behind the arson that happened in the spring at one of the schools in the East. But if she’s behind Ana’s kidnapping attempt, I see no proof of it.” He presses his lips together. “I’m going to move you, too.”

“Move me?”

“To the Vampyres. Or the Humans, if you prefer. Koen is also an option. He’d keep you safe, and Ana would love to have you there, and I’d feel better knowing you two are together.”

“Lowe.” I take a step closer and shake my head. Which, apparently, now makes me dizzy. “This is very much not the first time someone has tried to off me, and I’m not going to— I don’t want to go away.” Why would I? I thought we . . . “We’re a team, right? And what would even happen with the armistice if I left?”

“It doesn’t matter. Your father doesn’t need to know. I can take care of everything and make sure that you’re as free—”

“No.”

I don’t realize how loudly I spoke until the word echoes through the room. For a split second, I see the guilt and agony Lowe’s wrestling with on his face. He sighs and bends his head.

“I almost got you killed, Misery.”

“You didn’t. Someone else did, and we should figure out who. Together.” “My job is to protect you, and I failed. It happened under my watch,

when I was standing inches away from you.”

“There you go.” My cheeks heat up. “A good reason for me not to leave. In fact, you should keep me even closer.” I say it a little flirtatiously, and it

messes with his head as much as with mine. He steps into me, inhaling sharply. His words are a heated, barely audible hiss.

“Do you have no fucking fear?” “No.”

“I have enough for both of us, then.” His jaw works, the intensity of his fury thick in the space between us. “How are you?” he asks after a while, voice once again calm. The change of topic is so brusque, I’m even dizzier.

“Kinda gross?” I shrug. “Like there should be flies buzzing around me.

But maybe not, because they’d stick to my skin.”

“You sweated through your sheets multiple times.”

A feat, since Vampyres barely have sweat glands. “Did Dr. Averill change them?”

“I did.”

“Oh.”

“Juno helped. Sometimes. When I was able to let her. Once I calmed down.” He wipes his palm down his face. “It’s hard for me.”

“What is?”

“To see you like that. To let anyone else touch you when you’re hurt or sick or just . . . I didn’t need that qualifier, actually. To let anyone else touch you is . . .” He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth. I can’t quite follow—and then I can, when he says, “I’m not sure who I can trust anymore.”

“Ah.”

“I won’t let you . . .”

I reach out to clasp his shoulders. “Lowe, there’s no letting. And you can trust me.” I smile up at him. “Please. I’m going to stay, and I’m going to help, and I’m going to . . .” I take a deep breath.

No. God, no.

“Shower. I’m going to shower. I had not realized how bad I stink. I am

offending myself.”

He studies me, undoubtedly preparing more rebuttals, lining up arguments, all ready to drive me away. But they never come. Instead, the

corner of his mouth lifts into a soft smile, and he abruptly picks me up, arms under my back and knees. “What are you— What is happening?”

“You do need washing,” he agrees, carrying me out of the room. “Are you going to hose me off in the garden?”

“We’ll see.” But he brings me to my bathroom, deposits me on the marble counter, and draws a bath. I’m not so weak that I couldn’t do this on my own, but I enjoy watching his graceful movements, the hypnotic play of muscles under his T-shirt as he bends to fill the tub. The water level slowly rises, and he tests the temperature with his fingers. I think about Owen—the only person who may have been remotely upset by me being on the brink of death. I should contact him. I should ask after Lowe’s mate. As the Were Collateral, she must have been terrified, because my death would lead to hers. I bet Lowe was acutely aware, and feared for his mate.

But I also believe that he cares for me. Deeply.

He chooses a lavender bottle from the shelf. I can’t smell its scent, but as steam fills the room, I pack my lungs with warm air. I may not be who Lowe was meant for, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something here. And I’ve had so little throughout my life, I know better than to demand all or nothing. I’m good at making do.

“It’s ready,” he says with his deep, mundane voice.

It’s a dreamlike sequence, but we’re on the same page: I slide to my feet and untie my hair, running a hand through it until it falls limp around my shoulders. I take everything else off and stand naked, skin pale and cool and tacky.

Should I be nervous? Because I’m not. Lowe . . . I’m not sure how he feels. He certainly doesn’t pretend to be uninterested, and looks his fill, following each curve of mine more than once, betraying little but hiding nothing. I’m not made like a Were woman. I’m not toned, and have no defined muscles. Either Lowe knew to expect it, or he doesn’t mind. His eyes glaze over as I step forward, and I take his hand when he offers it. I’m drowsy, wobbly-kneed. He lowers me into the tub.

“This feels nice.” I sigh once I’m submerged. I lean forward, forehead against my knees, letting my hair float around me.

“It does.” He’s not in the bath, but perhaps he’s referring to the shaky warmth of this unspoken agreement. This moment we’re sharing. He takes a washcloth from the shelf and dips it into the water.

His first pass is delicate over my bent neck. “So you’re one of them,” I say, instantly relaxed under his touch.

“Of who?”

“People who use washcloths.”

I hear his smile in his voice. “If you have a sponge . . .” “I don’t use anything,” I offer.

Because it’s very much an offer. A request, even. But he says nothing and continues with my arms, starting from the ball of my shoulder. His hands are firm but lightly trembling. He might be more tense about this than I am. “It seemed too forward,” he admits at last. His cheekbones are dusted with an olive tone, his voice husky. He patiently works his way to my ankle, then slowly up my leg.

I decide to be forward. I take his hand into mine and stroke each knuckle with my thumb, one by one, and once his guard is relaxed, I steal the cloth from him and let it float away. I know he wants to touch me. I know he won’t ask. I know he needs me to do this—put his hand back on my knee, this time without barriers.

His breath hitches, then comes faster. His jaw shifts, like he’s biting the inside of his mouth. The skin of my thigh glistens under his eyes, and his fingers tighten around my flesh, on the verge of something wonderful, something we both want.

But Lowe talks himself out of it. He squeezes his eyes and stands to take care of my back.

I swallow a whimper. “Coward,” I whisper good-naturedly.

In retaliation, he leans in to kiss my nape like he did on the plane— sucking and licking and some gentle biting. A subtle reminder that he’s different from me, a whole other species. If we do this, we’ll have to work things out.

“Do you . . . How do Weres have sex?”

He laughs softly against my skin, but I sense an edge. “Are you worried?”

I tip my head back. “Should I be?”

He massages my sternum. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not ever.”

“I know. I’m not sure why I asked.” I close my eyes, and he takes the invitation as what it is.

I lose myself in his touch, wondering how something that requires so little can feel so good. He lingers on my breasts, around my hips, but also everywhere else. All the curves and angles, all the soft, vulnerable places. My skin tingles, simmering with an unknown sort of pleasure. Lowe is painstaking: he finds spots he wants to explore, slows down, and his breath grows heavy in my ears, broken by soft hums of approval. He takes his time, delays moving on until he’s satisfied that his task has been completed. There is something patently sexual about this, no question, but it goes beyond. I’m being discovered. Mapped. Soothed and ignited at once.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, an absentminded thought more than a declaration, and suddenly I can’t stand it anymore. Eyes closed, my hand searches for his under the water. I braid our fingers together and guide them to my inner thigh. It’s a silent plea.

“I’m just so tired.” I sigh. “And I really want it.”

“God, Misery.” His heartbeat smells like he’d die for this. And yet he’s about to ask me if I’m really sure, and I’m going to laugh at him. Or snarl.

“Lowe. Will you help? Please?”

His “Fuck” is soft and awestruck, but his fingers shift to where I need them. Barely a brush of knuckles against my labia, but I hiss right as he inhales. Our breaths catch together, balancing in the room. “Okay.” A rumble from deep in his chest. “Okay.”

The pad of his thumb finds my clit in warm, rhythmic circles. Lowe licks his lips and half asks, half growls, “Like this?”

I nod. It’s not what I’d do for myself, but it works, somehow even better. There is some clumsiness on both our ends, but he figures out where to touch me. How long. How hard. “Yes.” I bite into my lower lip, fangs exposed, and press into him.

“The night we met, when you came down the mezzanine stairs,” he groans against my shoulder, “I thought about doing this.”

There must be something dramatically, massively compatible between us, because I feel every stroke of his fingers deep inside this soul that I’m not supposed to have. “Yeah?” The hot, mounting sensation in my lower belly knots into a tangle of heat. I squirm, arch my back. Cool air sweeps over my wet nipples.

“You looked cold in your jumpsuit.” He sucks at the same spot on my neck that he fixated on back at Emery’s, on the tarmac. “You looked so lovely, and so determined, and so fucking lonely.”

I grind against his hand, shamelessly whimpering at the empty, swollen feeling inside me, clutching blindly at his muscled arm with both hands.

“I thought about taking you away. I thought about getting you a blanket.” His index finger slips inside me, and with a brief adjustment, I push against it. “I thought about making you come with my mouth until you couldn’t take it anymore.”

The pleasure snaps inside me like fireworks, a glow of heat and relief. I clench around Lowe’s hand, curling into his arm, shaking all over it. A scream burns in my throat, but I swallow it down into a small moan, and then it’s a mess, cobbled together with fluttering heartbeats and gasping breaths. Lowe is staring at me, mouth parted, throat bobbing. His icy eyes flare into mine, and I . . .

I laugh, throaty and raspy.

“What?” he sounds winded. Just a hairbreadth from an unspecified turning point. I’m still pulsating around his hand, and he stares at the water sloshing around my hard nipples while licking his lips.

“Just . . .” I clear my throat, still laughing. “Could we kiss?” “What?”

“We haven’t yet. It’d be nice, if we did. At some point.”

“At some point,” he repeats in a haze. His hand cups the slick inside of my thigh, vibrating with restraint.

“Now, if you want. Though I’m worried.” He scowls. “Worried?”

“About my fangs. What if I cut you? Or bite your lips accidentally?”

“You’ve bitten me before. I didn’t mind then.” He leans forward, eager. “I won’t mind now.”

It doesn’t immediately work. My nose bumps against his, I cock my head a little too quickly, my hands glide off the slippery edge of the tub. “Misery,” he murmurs against the corner of my mouth, when his lips somehow end up there, sounding more delighted than dismayed by my lack of skills.

But then we get the hang of it, and oh.

It’s a messy kiss. Instantly, stunningly good. I’m cautious, afraid I’ll hurt him, but Lowe’s the unrestrained one. Feral. He’s the one who moves everything along, who nibbles and sucks and bruises. He uses his thumb to tilt my jaw upward, gripping my neck with his large palm once he’s satisfied with my position. It’s very deep, very quickly, and I give myself to it, to the filthy way he angles me as though he wants to know my taste from every side.

I pull back to breathe, but he only gives me a second before asking for more. He licks my fangs, and I feel it deep in my core. His desire bursts between us, longing, frustrated. I want to do something about it.

For him.

“Lowe,” I mumble against his mouth, forcing myself to stand. Warm water sluices over my skin, and he follows the journey of every single drop. He leans forward to press his lips to the soft skin underneath my belly button, then rises to towel me dry.

The front of his shirt is wet. My lashes are clumpy, beaded with water, and he kisses the drops out of my eyes. “I was scared.” It comes out like a confession. “You went limp in my arms, and I was so fucking scared.”

I nod. “I was, too.”

His eyes are paler than ever. “Come here.”

He picks me up again, and I want to remind him that I’m not defenseless, but this might be more for him than me. So I bury my face into his neck, and instinctively dart my tongue to lick the glands he told me about.

His entire body shudders, and then we’re in my room. I expect us to tumble onto my mattress, but he lowers me inside the closet, on the mound of blankets and pillows I’ve assembled. Then instantly pulls back.

“Lowe?”

The timbre of his voice is rough and low. “You smell like you just came.”

I stare back, speechless at his directness. I did just come. “And I need to eat you out.”

He needs to. “Okay?”

“It’s a Were thing,” he says, almost apologetic.

I nod, and when he bends to nip at my hipbone, I close my eyes and welcome it: the stretch of my thighs as they are spread out, the hitch of his breath as he looks and looks and looks some more, his raspy groan, and then the contact with his mouth.

There is something beseeching about the way he licks and sucks, something not quite in control, and when the pleasure begins fizzing in my stomach again, I writhe against his lips and give him what he wants. I comb my fingers in his short hair, but he takes my hands, both wrists locked in his large fingers, and pins them to my side. “Be still,” he orders, and the sight of me restrained must do something for him, because his other arm disappears down his body, the rhythmic flex of his corded shoulder a mesmerizing sight. He’s touching himself because what he’s doing to me makes him want to, and the idea is like fire in my belly.

“I can’t,” I hiss out, arching into him even more.

“Hush.” My brain cannot unravel how much he seems to be enjoying this, the sounds he produces, the consuming way he kisses my clit and my opening, the sweet scrape of his stubble against the crease of my thighs. I’m mindless, completely unraveled. And I’m dragging him with me.

“You are fucking unreal,” he says, and when a knuckle slides inside me, I feel myself clench around it. I don’t think Lowe is inexperienced, but there is an edge to his movements, something more enthusiastic than skilled, something just perfect. He gently bites my swollen lips, making me jolt, and then chases the sting with his tongue. When the heat rises in my

chest, when the pressure coils and I thrash around, he anchors me with an arm over my hipbone. That’s what has my legs quivering and my nipples aching and me coming hard: Lowe’s presence surrounding me, taking up every molecule of air.

Once I’m a shaking mess, he groans against my pussy and lets out a low “I’m going to—” His grip on my thighs becomes nearly painful. His hips jerk, and my heels dig into his shoulder as the pleasure crests violently inside me once again.

I probably black out a little. Because when everything recedes, I find Lowe crowding my body, still hard against my hip. His jeans are warm and sticky. His heartbeat pounds on the back of my tongue as he guides my head to his neck. “I think,” he says, winded, hoarse, “I’m going to lock you in this closet forever.”

I nuzzle closer. “I think I’d love that.” My fangs graze against his vein until he growls. I reach for the button of his jeans, fumble with it, and I almost have it open when his phone rings.

I whimper, disappointed. Lowe clutches my hip once, forcefully, then again before letting go. He vibrates with frustrated tension as he disentangles us. He sighs heavily after checking the caller ID, and hands the phone to me with shaky hands.

I reach for my discarded towel to cover myself and try not to pay attention to the way Lowe is breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down.

Owen’s formal “Congratulations on evading your first assassination attempt” is so factually incorrect, I almost hang up on him.

“My first? Excuse me?”

He rolls his eyes. “I meant in this round of Collateral duties. My apologies. Allow me to restate: I fucking told you this would happen, and you need to come back home immediately.”

“Home.” I drum my fingers against my chin. “You mean, to the people who sent me twice into enemy territory?”

“They technically sent you into ally territory, and you almost got killed, so get your ass back here.”

I open my mouth to ask him if Father has died and made him councilman, then close it when Lowe enters the screen. “Her safety is my priority,” he tells Owen in a stately manner.

My brother studies my bare shoulders, the wet-T-shirt-contest condition Lowe’s chest appears to be in, the flush on both our cheeks, and says, “You two really are fucking, huh.”

It’s not a question. I turn to look at Lowe, who turns to look at me. And we both get a little lost in the exchange.

Not yet, I think.

I wish we were, he seems to say.

Maybe we could—

“Stop eye-fucking each other in front of me—this is incest. Bestiality, at the very least. Misery.” Owen switches to the Tongue, “There is something I need to tell you. About your friend—”

“In English,” I interrupt.

He gives me an incredulous look, eyes darting between me and Lowe. “He’s helping me search for Serena,” I explain.

“He’s helping you.” “Yup.”

He rolls his eyes again. “Your friend’s apartment was broken into three days ago.”

“What?” I shift forward. “By whom?”

“Not sure, because whoever did it also messed with the cameras in the apartment complex. But I’m having some friends look into alternative sources.”

“Like what?”

“Footage from security cameras in the surrounding buildings.” “Did they take anything?” Lowe asks.

“Very difficult to tell, considering the state they left the place in.”

I massage my temple, wondering for a millionth time what Serena got herself involved in.

“And there’s more,” Owen adds. “Something important. But I can’t talk about it on the phone, so we’ll need to meet in person.”

I glance at Lowe. “Could we arrange it?” “Yes. Give me a few hours.”

“Very well.” He nods at Lowe, then switches back to the Tongue. “I am glad you’re still with me.” His eyes meet mine, and I almost believe he means it. When I notice the brackets on each side of his mouth, it occurs to me that there’s an air about my usually carefree, glib brother that mirrors Lowe’s: Tired. Worried. Heavy.

“I’m glad to still be with you,” I reply. It might be the most vulnerable we’ve been with each other. Marriage is making a sap out of me.

“And whatever is happening between you two, fuck it out of your system before people find out.” He hangs up, and I instantly turn to Lowe.

“Will we really?” I ask.

His eyes are instantly hooded. His lips move unintelligibly for a few moments. “The things I want to—”

“I mean, will we be meeting him in person?”

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “As soon as I can arrange it.”

I nod gratefully. “Thank you. Um, the other thing, too, I would—”

His phone rings again. He picks up with a curt “Lowe,” peeling his eyes from mine with great effort.

“Yeah. Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

He slips the phone in his pocket and then lingers here, on the floor of my closet, more than is necessary. “I have to go—pack business. And I should get changed first. But I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay. I’ll be here, I guess.” I’m not sure what to say. All that happened in the past hour is slowly solidifying. Becoming concrete and awkward between us.

I think he wants to stay.

I think I want him to stay.

“Be good,” he says, getting up.

And then immediately crouches down again, just to kiss my forehead.