He should never have told her. He made a mistake—several, in fact.
S
OMETHING ELUSIVE DANGLES IN FRONT OF MY NOSE, BUT I CAN’T
focus on it. It’s a tip-of-the-tongue state, a sneeze that won’t start and teeters there, waiting.
Lowe’s mate is not Gabi. I fiddle with the memories of past conversations, trying to recall what I know, what Lowe openly acknowledged, and what gaps I filled on my own. There’s a nagging spark of something in my chest, something fizzy and not unhappy. I try to rationalize it into nothing, and when that fails, I force my attention away by saying, “I live five minutes from here.” I wet my lips, studying the familiar contours of my old neighborhood. “Lived.” I bite my lower lip. “I guess I still do. The council took over my rent.”
“Want to stop by?” “Why?”
“I’d like to see it.”
I snort. “It’s not a very architecturally pleasing building.” “It’s not about the building, Misery.”
It takes more like ten minutes to get there, but Lowe follows my directions without complaints. I punch in the code at the main entrance, but didn’t bring any keys with me, so once we’re in front of my door, I pluck a hairpin off.
“You’re . . .” He lets out a low, affectionate laugh, shaking his head.
I push the door open and lift an eyebrow. “I’m?” “Amazing.”
My chest is too tight for my heart.
“How long did you live here?” he asks, following me inside and glancing around.
I calculate it in my head. “Four years, more or less.”
The Collateral is entitled to a small trust fund, and I used pretty much all of my money on my fake Human IDs, and then to put myself and Serena through college. We were on a tight budget for a few years, sharing cramped spaces and constantly compromising on the decor. The result was a mix of minimalism and shabby chic that we both looked back on with equal fondness and horror.
This place, though, is where I moved after graduating. I had my first salary and could splurge a little. I was pleased with the clean, no-fuss spaces. I rescued most of the furniture from flea markets Serena and I visited on cloudy days, early in the morning, and loved how uncluttered and roomy the final result was. I listened to synthwave music without anyone judgmentally asking me what trauma had led to me to enjoy “that shit,” and could even display my lava lamp in all its cringe glory.
And yet, when I glance around the living room, trying to see the place from Lowe’s perspective, it only seems empty. Lifeless. Like a museum.
Picturing myself in it has my stomach in twists. It’s only been a few weeks—my tastes can’t have changed so much in so little, can they?
I turn to Lowe and find him white-knuckling the doorframe. “Are you okay?”
“It smells a lot like you,” he says. His voice is hushed, eyes glassy and unfocused. “More than your room in my house. More . . . layers.” He wets his lips. “Give me a second to get used to it.”
I don’t ask him if my scent bothers him, because it’s clear by now that it doesn’t. He used to hate it, though. Or did he? He sure didn’t deny it, and I thought he only recently changed his mind, but maybe . . .
“Are you and Gabi close?” I ask. Not what we were discussing, but Lowe appears to welcome the distraction.
“I don’t know her well.” He takes a deep breath, slowly getting himself under control. “She’s a couple of years older, and grew up in another huddle. I’ve only met her a handful of times.”
“Why was she chosen to be the Were Collateral?”
“She offered to.” He takes a few steps inside, fingers lightly tracing the empty surfaces, as though he wants to leave little snippets of his scent in this home. Braid it with my own. I see no dust, which means that Owen must have arranged for a cleaning service. He really is a better brother than I gave him credit for. “She was a second. She wanted a truce with the Vampyres. She lost relatives in the war, I believe.”
“I see. Did you ask for volunteers?”
He shakes his head. “Your father’s proposal was discussed during one of our round tables. I wasn’t going to ask anyone to put themselves in danger, and was very clear that if us providing a Collateral was nonnegotiable, I wouldn’t go through with the marriage. After the meeting, Gabi took me aside and asked to be sent in.”
“Right.” I wander into the kitchenette and idly open the fridge. Inside there’s a forgotten bag of blood. What a waste. “She asked. Lowe?”
He leans against the wall, already more relaxed. “Yeah?” “What did I study in college?”
He gives me a puzzled look. “You?” “Me.”
“Why?” He shrugs when I don’t reply. “You majored in software engineering and minored in forensic sciences.”
Okay, okay. Okay.
“It was never her.”
His stare is perfectly blank. “Gabi. She is not your mate.”
“She—no. Did you think she was?” He blinks, uncomprehendingly. “Governor Davenport said so. Back at the ceremony.”
His eyes widen with understanding, and I watch the realization hit him. “No. The traditional contract between Vampyres and Weres requires the
Collateral to be two things: in good health, and related to the Alpha of the pack.”
I knew that. But for the first time, I actually think about it. “Do you have any living relatives aside from Ana?”
He shakes his head.
“I see. And you weren’t about to let her go.” “It was also nonnegotiable.”
“So . . . ?”
“We made the case that a mate is equivalent to a blood relative within a Were pack. It’s not quite as straightforward as that, but . . .”
“The council bought it.”
Lowe nods. “I asked your father not to publicize that she was my mate to avoid issues for Gabi once she returned home. I didn’t think . . .” I watch understanding fully sink into him. That I’d been assuming it was her. That I thought he’d brought me to meet his mate, even as we . . . “No. No, Misery.” He seems distressed on my behalf. “She isn’t. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not his fault if I assumed, and it has nothing to do with me, anyway.
But it has. We study each other across several feet, and there’s a question bubbling deep in my belly, and an answer simmering inside him, a tentative certainty that warms the air between us.
My feet drag me to Lowe of their own accord. They push me up on my toes, and I’m kissing him as intensely as I can, too much pressure too fast, my arms looped tight around his neck like a noose. He doesn’t immediately respond, but it’s confusion more than hesitation. After a beat his hands close around my waist, trapping me between him and the wall, deepening the contact. “Misery.” The words come out jumbled between our lips. His erection brushes against my stomach and we both gasp.
“We shouldn’t,” he says, pulling back.
But when I ask him “Why?” his lips find mine again. The kiss started high, but still manages to escalate. “I know. I know, I think—” My hands travel down, pulling up his shirt and exposing a strip of warm skin. “I want to—” I cannot say it out loud, because I don’t know what I need. It has to
do with the truth, and him admitting it, but it’s a confused, painful thorn tangled in my head. “Can we—”
“Yeah. Yeah, we can.” He’s at once urgent and soothing. “We can.”
There is a couch right behind us, but Lowe flips me around until my front is pressed to the wall, forehead and forearm flush against it. “Slow down,” he commands, mouth sucking on my neck, a large hand splaying over the center of my back. My heart flutters. In the slipperiness of this moment, it’s exactly what I need to hear.
“You’re just so good.” He’s being Were, or Alpha, or Lowe again. Pressing open-mouthed bites into my neck. I moan, and he pushes harder into me. “You need to tell me. This place smells like you and your scent is shooting up my brain and I cannot think about anything but fucking you. So if you want me to stop, I need you to tell me.”
I press my forehead harder against the wall. “Please, don’t stop.”
He swears softly, sounding ruined. He makes quick work of pulling up my shirt and unfastening my jeans. I arch against him—his mouth, his chest, his cock. One of his large palms comes up to the wall, right beside mine, and I extend my little finger to brush against his thumb. I’m requesting more, and he gets it. But instead of giving it to me, he nuzzles the crook of my throat. “We should slow down.” He laughs, rueful, hot into my skin.
“The opposite.”
“Misery—” he starts. “I want to have sex.”
A yearning, guttural noise vibrates into my skin. “Misery.” “It’s fine. It’s going to work out.”
“It’s not.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” His arms cross on my belly and pull me to him, possessive, a little frustrated. “We can’t.” We’re both shaking with . . . This deep, bottomless need inside me, is it desire? Is this why people do impulsive, mindless, hotheaded things?
“I just— It must have happened before. A male Were and a female Vampyre.” Our species have existed for thousands of years, and we didn’t always hate each other. “We could try. I’m not afraid of your. . . ”
He laughs unsteadily against my throat. “You don’t even know what it’s called.”
“What does it matter?”
“Am I wrong?” I let out a bitter hum, and he shushes me with a nip on the valley behind my ear. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, do you?”
“Just tell me, then. Then I’ll know, and—”
“A knot. It’s called a knot.” I savor the word in my head, marveling at how well it fits. “Say it,” Lowe orders. And when I hesitate, he adds, “Please.”
“Knot. A knot.”
His grip tightens. His breath grows shallow. “Shit.” “W-what?”
“I think I’d like to hear you say it again.”
I do, just because he asked. He clutches my hip as though he likes the encore even more.
“You know what its purpose is?”
I may know nothing about Were biology, but I’m not stupid, or naive. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
This is simultaneously mortifying and the most erotic experience of my entire life. “To keep it inside.”
His hand slides underneath my shirt, gently stroking the underside of my breast. “Keep what inside, sweetheart?”
I close my eyes. My heart beats a pounding, sluggish rhythm into every inch of my skin. “Your come.”
His big body shudders for a moment. Then rewards me with a nibble on the tip of my ear. “You’d be okay with that?”
I nod. He groans.
“I’m not sure I’d be willing to risk hurting you.”
I wish I could see his face. “You can stop. If it hurts, if it doesn’t work.” “What if I can’t?”
“You will. I know you will.”
“Or I won’t be able to. Because I want it too much.” His fingers move back down, skimming my underwear, knuckles white against the damp blue cotton. He murmurs something about how slick I am, and when the heel of his palm starts massaging my clit in a slow rhythm I sigh in pleasure and relief.
“I—I really want to.”
“Fuck,” he exhales, and then he shifts behind me. His palm fully covers my hand on the wall.
I’m here. Okay. I’ve got you.
“Let me just— I can’t just fuck you like this.” He pulls my jeans around my knees and crowds me tighter into the wall. “Let me get you there.”
I don’t fully understand what he means, until one of his hands grips my hip bone and the other slips inside my panties, stretching the cotton in a way that feels obscene. He parts me with two of his fingers, and lets out a hushed, reverential groan as he stares at himself touching me under the soft fabric. His heartbeat punches into my back, and when his teeth find my throat and start scraping, then nibbling, then biting just hard enough, when his finger circles my clit just right, that’s when I come.
It’s unexpected, too fast. Barely a climb and I’m already dropping down, gasping for air. But it feels like an interrupted, half thing, and I don’t let myself catch my breath. I reach back, frantically grasping to undo his jeans. “Quiet,” he orders, pinning my hands to the small of my back. “You
need to give me a minute. I’m figuring this out.”
I force myself to relax. It’s obvious that, on average, the sex his people have and the sex of my people are different flavors. Just as it’s obvious that he and I inhabit some overlapping space. I would expect nothing less.
“This would be easier if you smelled a little less fuckable,” he says raggedly, but I hear the clinking sound of his belt and then I feel it, the head of his cock pressing against the soaked panties that stick to my pussy. I free myself to reach down, stroke his length, and he makes a choked sound. It’s
hot and large, but the thing at the base—his knot—hasn’t swelled yet. Last time it inflated when he came. I want to know if that’s the norm, but asking will send Lowe into another spin of concern, and I don’t need him to worry about me.
“Please,” I beg. “Please, put it in.”
He nods against my temple, breath shallow and quick. He hooks my underwear to the side and pushes his cock inside me, the burning stretch deepening until it cannot go any farther, and whatever it was that I expected from having a man—having Lowe—inside me, this is different.
I inhale abruptly.
He exhales in the same way.
There’s no need for negotiation, no pain, and no struggle. I’m pliant and he’s hard. I’m wet and he’s groaning. We fit. The biological compatibility Lowe told me about, the one between mates . . . I don’t presume to know what that would be like. All I know is that we feel pretty fucking—
“Perfect,” he murmurs, bottoming out, gripping my waist like he’s trying to collect himself. I know why: this feels exquisite in a sharp, cruel way. Vampyres don’t read minds, but I know what he’s thinking: how easy it would be to live in this forever. To just never stop. “Don’t move, or I’ll come.” He licks a stripe up the back of my neck. “Shit, I might come anyway. Just from your scent and your little bent neck.”
I might, too. Very soon. Especially as he moves with experimental, shallow thrusts that hit everywhere inside me. I feel myself tighten in little flutters around him, and he stops. Then he bends over to whisper against my ear: “If you’re about to come, tell me. Because that will make me come, and I need to pull out or I might hurt you. Okay?” He sounds calm, even when his control is about to snap.
I nod, trying to stave off the surge of pleasure.
“Okay.” He presses another gentle, chaste kiss against my nape, and then draws out. The friction is delicious, and I arch back, making plaintive sounds as only the tip is left inside. When he pushes in again, a little deeper, I whimper. “Too much?”
The only answer I can manage is a squeeze around his cock. His palm slaps against the wall with a curse.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” I tell him, barely a whisper. His “Yeah” is apologetic. “I tried not to.”
I turn my head. He’s hulking, wrapped around me. His cheek is there, stubbly and flushed olive and perfect for me to kiss. “Me, too.” Then I add, smiling, “Not too hard, though.”
I lose track of time when he starts thrusting, and so does he. We move together, sweaty and winded. He stops after a few minutes, to take off the edge, and then again a couple of minutes after that. He pulls out when he needs a break from the stimulation, and I feel empty, shaking with frustrated pleasure, so he slides his fingers inside me, keeping me full as he winds down, hot and hard against my hip. The lights from the street pour in through the windows, and our breathing grows choppy. When I can’t stop myself, when I’m sensitive and swollen and about to shatter so hard that a single thrust is okay to bring me off, I can barely remember to warn him.
“I’m about to—”
I come again, the pleasure curling tight inside me. What happens to Lowe is fuzzy, eclipsed by my own pleasure, but I make out some of it: a sharp grunt; a sudden feeling of emptiness; that part of him swelling hotter and harder against the globes of my ass; then his come, warm and wet, pooling onto the small of my back.
And then we stay like that, breathing together, wiped of thought. He presses his forehead against my shoulder, one hand splayed on my abdomen as if to contain me, and maybe it’s whatever chemicals flood Vampyre brains after sex, but I cannot accept that this is not destined. That we are not meant to be.
“Do Weres . . .” My voice is raspy from swallowing my moans. I clear my throat and hear myself ask, “Do Weres always knot?”
He lets out a shuddering breath. “Don’t move.” He presses a kiss against my cheekbone. “I’m going to clean you up. Where do you keep—”
“Don’t leave.” I turn around to look at him, and he looks—ravaged. Vulnerable. Happy. My shirt slips down, but this is my apartment. I have
nothing but changes of clothes. “Can you answer my question first?” He shakes his head. “We don’t.” But then adds: “It’s complicated.”
I don’t think it’s complicated. In fact, I suspect it might be very simple. “Explain it to me, please.”
“It’s a sign of . . . It only happens between certain people.” My shirt is completely askew, and he trails kisses on the jutting bone of my shoulder, getting lost in the act before straightening my neckline. He inhales deeply. “On second thought, I’m not going to clean you up. I’ll just leave you like this.” His hand snakes around my waist. To my lower back, where I’m sticky and wet. “Send a clear message to anyone who smells you. Who you belong to.”
“Had it ever happened to you before?”
He’s smearing his come into my skin with his thumb, and why am I okay with this? “Before?”
“Before me. Knotting. Did it ever happen with anyone else?” His eyes darken. “Misery—”
“I’m just starting to put things together, you know?” We’re still buzzing from the pleasure, and it’s unfair of me to press him right now, when our defenses are lowered and we’re full of the wrong kind of hormones, but . . . Just but. “I think it was there for me to see all along. But you threw me off on purpose, didn’t you? There was your reaction to my scent when we first met, and it was so extreme, I assumed that you didn’t like it. How adamant you were about not having me around.” I swallow. “I would have realized it sooner, if I hadn’t taken for granted that it had to be another Were. It made so much sense that Gabi would be the one. In the end, though, it was all about getting to know you. Because now that I understand what kind of person you are, I cannot help but wonder: If Lowe were in love with someone else, would he be like this with me? And I can’t picture a reality, or even a damn simulation, in which that would be the case.” I let out a short laugh.
Lowe says nothing. He stares, impenetrable. His pale, decent, kind eyes retreat into something that offers no clarity.
“It happens between mates, right? Knotting, I mean.” Biologically, it makes sense in so many ways. Honestly, nothing else does. “It’s me, isn’t it?” I attempt a wobbly smile. It’s okay. I know it. I feel it, too. “I’m your mate. That’s why . . .”
“Misery.” He’s not looking at me, but at some spot around my feet. And his tone is like I’ve never heard it before: Unreadable. Empty.
“That’s why, right?”
He’s silent for heavy seconds. “Misery.” My name, again, but this time there’s a world of hurt behind the word, like I’m torturing him.
“I’m not . . . I feel the same way you do,” I add quickly, not wanting him to think that I’m accusing him of something beyond his control. “Or maybe not—maybe I don’t have the hardware. Maybe only another Were could feel the same. But I really do like you. More than that. I haven’t quite figured it all out, because I don’t have much experience with feelings. But maybe you think that this frightens the shit out of me, and . . .” My voice weakens, because Lowe has lifted his gaze, and I can see the way he’s looking at me.
He understands, I think. He knows. He feels exactly the way I do.
But then his expression shutters. And his tone can only be described as compassionate. “I’m sorry if I’ve ever given you the wrong impression about what is happening between us.”
My assurance wobbles, when I was secure in his feelings for me till a moment ago. I shake my head. “Lowe, come on. I know Gabi isn’t your mate.”
“She isn’t.” He presses his lips together. “But I’m afraid you reached the wrong conclusions.”
“Lowe.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Misery.” “Lowe, it’s fine. You can—”
“We should stop discussing this now.”
“No.” I let out a laugh. “I’m right. I know that I’m right.”
There is something about the way he stares at me. Like he knows he’s about to hurt me, and himself in the process, and the thought is simply
unacceptable. Like I’m leaving him no choice.
“You said that a mate grabs you by the stomach, and—”
“Misery.” He speaks harshly this time, like he’s scolding a child. “You should stop filling your mouth with Were words you cannot understand.”
My throat falls into my stomach. “Lowe.”
“It was a mistake, telling you about the concept of mates.” His voice is detached, like he’s reading from a script and sucking every emotion out of his performance. “It’s not something any non-Were can fully comprehend, let alone a Vampyre. But I understand how appealing it might be, for someone who struggles with belonging.”
“What?”
“Misery.” He sighs again. “You have been abandoned and mistreated your entire life. By your family, by your people, by your only friend. You are fascinated with the idea of eternal love and companionship, but that just doesn’t reflect what I feel for you.”
My heart cracks. The ground beneath my feet undulates as I come to terms with this version of Lowe. Who, apparently, would take things I told him about my past and use them against me. “You . . .” I shake my head, stupefied by how much his words hurt. Even when they cannot be true. “You’re just trying to push me away. Tell me,” I order, stubborn all of a sudden. I feel like a bumbling mess. Not myself. Every instinct screams at me to retreat, but this is an unacceptable, obvious lie. “Tell me that you’re not in love with me,” I challenge. “That you don’t want to be with me.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m sorry,” he says, dispassionate, with a hint of condescension. Some pity. Sorrow. “I think you’re very attractive. And I enjoy spending time with you. I enjoyed—” His voice almost breaks. “I enjoyed fucking you. And I wish you the best, but. ” He shakes his head.
I open my mouth, hoping for a good comeback, only to find that I cannot breathe. And then the worst of it happens: Lowe wipes the back of his hand where, if I could cry, a tear would streak my cheek.
The pain of his rejection is a fist around my heart.
“I see that this was a mistake,” he continues. “But it’s for the best. You don’t want to be tied to someone like me. You should be free.” He almost
stumbles on the last word, but recovers quickly. “And from now on, you and I should probably be apart.”
“Apart?”
“I can find another place for you to live.” His eyes are trained on a spot behind my shoulders. “You’re getting the wrong ideas, and I frankly don’t want you to—”
A phone rings.
His eyes dart away, annoyed, but when he steps back from me, it’s a reprieve. I stare down at my feet, tuning out the soft conversation that ensues, trying to breathe through the crushing cold lodged behind my sternum.
I was wrong.
I misunderstood.
I was mistaken, and he isn’t—he doesn’t . . . “I’ll be right there.”
Lowe hangs up. When he addresses me, it’s with his usual calm, as though our conversation never took place. As though nothing between us ever took place.
“I need to leave.” He adjusts his jeans. I nod. With difficulty. “Okay. I—”
“I’m going to have someone come pick you up and take you back into Were territory.”
“It’s fine. I can just—”
“It’s dangerous,” he interrupts flatly. “So no, you can’t. You may persist in not caring about your safety, but I . . .” He doesn’t continue. Just looks and looks and looks at me, and the silence between us grows intolerable.
“Okay. You can let yourself out. I’m going to shower and get changed.” I head blindly toward my bedroom, but barely manage two feet before a strong grip around my fingers stops me in my tracks.
I don’t want to turn to him, but I do. And tremble when he leans in to kiss my forehead. He inhales once, hard. I feel his lips move against my skin into what feels like three short words, but probably isn’t. For a second I wonder if maybe I was right after all, and my heart soars.
Then he pulls back, and it collapses on itself once again.
“Go,” he orders, and I do. I’ve had enough of this careless, cruel brand of honesty for tonight.
I walk into my room and don’t wait for him to leave before I close the door behind me.
