That hint of challenge solidifies, heavy as concrete, into something cities could be built on. “Maybe you should stop breathing in so much,” I say, pulling back to look him squarely in the eye.

And then everything happens much too quickly.

The glint of steel at the corner of my view. An unfamiliar, rage-filled voice yelling, “You Vampyre bitch!” Hundreds of gasps, and a sharp blade making its way toward my throat, my jugular, and—

The knife stops a hairbreadth from my skin. I don’t remember closing my eyes, and when I open them my brain cannot seem to catch up: someone—a Human, dressed as a waiter—came at me with a knife. I did not notice him. The guards did not notice him. My husband, on the other hand . . .

Lowe Moreland’s palm is wrapped around the blade, less than an inch from my neck. Green blood trickles down his forearm, its rich scent crashing into me like a wave. There is no sign of pain in his eyes as they hold mine.

He just saved my life.

“Nowhere, Misery,” he murmurs, lips barely moving. In the distance, Father is barking orders. Security finally reacts, pulls away the thrashing waiter. A few guests gasp, scream, and maybe I should scream, too, but I don’t have the wherewithal to do anything until my husband tells me, “For the next year, let’s make sure to stay out of each other’s way. Understood?”

I try to swallow. Fail the first time, do a great job the second. “And they say romance is dead,” I say, pleased not to sound as dry throated as I feel. He hesitates for a moment, and I could swear he inhales again, deep, storing up . . . something. His hand tightens on my back for a second before finally letting go.

And then Lowe Moreland, my husband, stalks off the dance floor, a trail of forest-green blood tracking his path.

Leaving me blissfully alone on the night of our wedding.

CHAPTER 3

He is under siege in his own home.

The voice is young and sullen. It worms its way under my pillow and into my ears, nudging me awake in the dead middle of the day.

“This used to be my room,” it says.

The floor is hard underneath me. My brain is blurry and my ears are made of cotton and I don’t know where I am, why, who would commit this ignominy upon my person: wake me up when the sun is bright in the sky and I am sapped of all strength.

“Can I hide in here? She’s grumpy today.”

I gather six months’ worth of energy and unearth myself from under the blankets, but run out of steam when it comes to lifting my eyelids.

No, we Vampyres don’t pulverize in the sun like glitter bombs. Sunlight burns us and it hurts, but it won’t kill us unless the exposure is unfiltered and prolonged. However, we are pretty useless in the middle of the day, even inside. Lethargic and weak and crawly and headachy, especially during late spring and summer, when the rays hit at that pesky steep angle. “This crepuscularity of yours is really cramping my brunch lifestyle,” Serena used to say. “Also, the fact that you don’t eat.”

“Is it true that you don’t have a soul?”

It’s goddamn noon. And there is a child here, asking me:

“Because you used to be dead?”

I crane my eyes to a semi-open slit and find her right here, in the closet where I made my bed early this morning. Her heartbeat hops happily around, like a pent-up fawn. She’s round faced. Curly haired. American Girl dolled.

Very annoying.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“And then you were forced to drink someone’s blood?”

She is, I would estimate, anywhere between three and a young thirteen. I have no way of narrowing this down any further: with this one, my staggering indifference toward children meets my twenty-five-year-old determination to avoid anything Were. And on top of everything, her eyes are a pale, dangerous, familiar green.

I don’t like this. “How did you get in here?”

She points at the open closet door like I’m a little daft. “And then you came back to life, but without your soul?”

I squint at her in the near darkness, grateful that she hasn’t pulled the curtains. “Is it true that you were bitten by a rabid dog and are now a furry who froths at the mouth during the full moon?” I’m trying to be a bitch, but she lets out a peal of laughter that has me feeling like a stand-up comedian.

“No, silly.”

“Well, then. You have your answer. While I still don’t know how you got in here.” She points at the door again, and I make a mental note to never have children. “I locked that.” I’m sure I did. I’m positive that I did not spend my first night among the Weres without locking my damn door. I figured that even with their super strength, if one of them decided to wolf me down, a locked door would keep them out. Because Weres would build Were-proof doors, right?

“I have a spare key,” Were-child says.

Oh.

“This used to be my room. So if I had nightmares, I got to go to Lowe. Through there.” She points at another door. Whose doorknob I didn’t try last night. I suspected who the adjoining room would belong to, and I didn’t feel like processing that kind of trauma at five a.m. “He says that I can still go, but now I’m across the hallway.”

A tinge of guilt penetrates my exhaustion: I’ve evicted a three-(thirteen?)-year-old from her room and am forcing her to cross an entire hallway in the grip of horrific, recurring nightmares to reach her . . .

Oh, crap. “Please tell me Moreland’s not your father.”

She doesn’t reply. “Do you ever get nightmares?”

“Vampyres don’t dream.” I mean, I can deal with separating true lovers or whatnot, but an entire family? A child from her . . . Oh, shit. “Where is your mother?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Does she live here?”

“Not anymore.”

Fuck. “Where did she go?”

She shrugs. “Lowe said that it’s impossible to tell.”

I rub my eyes. “Is Moreland—is Lowe your dad?”

“Ana’s father is dead.” The voice comes from outside the closet, and we both turn.

Standing in the light seeping in from the hallway is a red-haired woman. She’s pretty, strong, fit in a way that suggests that she could run a half-marathon with no notice. She stares at me with a mix of worry and hostility, like my kink is burning crickets with kerosene.

“Many Were children are orphaned, most of them at the hands of Vampyres like you. Best not ask them about the whereabouts of their parents. Come here, Ana.”

Ana runs to her, but not before whispering at me, “I like your pointy ears,” entirely too loud.

I’m too bone-tired to deal with any of this at midday. “I had no idea. I’m sorry, Ana.”

Ana seems unperturbed. “It’s okay. Juno’s just grouchy. Can I come over to play with you when—”

“Ana, go downstairs and get a snack. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Ana sighs, and rolls her eyes, and pouts like she was asked to file a tax return, but eventually she does leave, sneaking me an impish smile. My sleep-addled brain briefly considers returning it, then recalls that I let my fangs regrow.