God, I bet they call them pups.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” I ask.

He blinks, like he forgot we were in the middle of a conversation. He clears his throat, but his voice stays gravelly. “Believe what?”

“That I didn’t attack Max.”

He presses his full lips together. “You were showing him your fangs.”

“You jealous?” I bat my eyes at him, not sure where this recklessness comes from. I don’t think I want to provoke him. “Wanna see them?”

His eyes rocket down to my lips and stay for a beat too long. It’s almost funny, how repulsive Weres find our teeth. “What I am is worried that my Vampyre wife will get herself killed. I’d have to bury her corpse in the raised bed under the plumbago, and the next batch will sprout ugly.”

I gasp theatrically. “Not the plumbago.”

“They are my sister’s favorite.”

“And she is very cute.”

He abruptly leans so close, I feel his breath on my lips. “Is this a threat?”

“No.” I frown, bewildered. “No.” I let out a choked laugh. “There was no ‘would be a shame if something happened to her’ implied. Despite the fan fiction Max and Juno have been writing about me, I do not usually plot the demise of children.” I think about my conversation with Alex. Who’s probably off somewhere biting his cuticles to little stumps. “Plus, you’re the one who decided I should be living here.”

His eyebrow lifts. “I’m sure you have some excellent advice on where else I should house the daughter of the most powerful Vampyre in the council, who’s apparently a fearsome fighter in her own right.”

“Fearsome?” I’m . . . flattered?

“For a non-Were,” he adds, a tad begrudgingly, like he regrets the compliment. I bet this man thrives on grudges. He has a questionable temperament, stern and autocratic, and I’ve always thought of myself as too much of a survivor to be in any way mouthy, but here I am. Nettlesome.

“Still. It feels like committing to the bit a little too much, giving me the bedroom next to yours.”

“I’ll decide what’s too much.” He’s condescending. And inflexible. A dick, probably.

“By all means, then, let’s embrace tradition. Should we slice my palm and drip some blood on the sheets? Hang them from the public square?”

His eyes close briefly and he grits out, “I doubt there are any expectations of virginity on your part.”

“Fantastic. I love surprising people.”

I see the confusion in his parted lips, before he subdues it and shifts back to his default austere expression.

It’s amusing to me, the idea that someone who has skimmed a synopsis of my life would assume I’ve had any sort of romantic entanglement. With whom? A Vampyre, when they only see me as a traitor? A Human, who would consider me a monster?

The birth control shot I was given before coming here was a joke, not just because Lowe and I are as likely to have sex as we are to start a podcast together, but also because he’s a Were and I a Vampyre, and we couldn’t reproduce even if we wanted to. Interspecies relationships are unheard of—if not unseen, judging by all the Human-produced porn Serena and I would watch. We’d eat popcorn and laugh at the untalented actors in purple contacts and fake teeth engaging in acts that proudly showcased their ignorance of Vampyre anatomy. Were, too. I’m no expert, but I’m fairly sure their dicks wouldn’t get stuck in an orifice like that.

“Where did you learn how to fight?” Lowe asks. Probably to change the topic from sex with his least favorite sentient species.

“Was it not listed in your briefing memo?”

He shakes his head. “I did wonder how you could still be alive, after seven attempts on your life.”

“So did I. And there were more than that, though most were half-assed. We got tired of reporting them.”

“We?”

“My foster sister and I.” I cross my arms, and now I’m mirroring his pose. Here we are, too close once again, my elbows almost brushing his. “We took self-defense classes together.”

You know her, don’t you? She knows you. Tell me something. Anything.

He does, but not what I want to hear. “No fighting in Were territory.”

“Sure. So, next time someone attacks me, I let them help themselves? Then again, you could be the next one to attack me. Since you’re not exactly a fan.”

The pause that follows is not encouraging. “For as long as you live in Were territory, you are under my protection. And under my authority.”

I let out a silent, breathy laugh. “What are your orders for me, then?”

He takes one step closer, and the tension in the room instantly changes, shifting to something tighter, more dangerous. Fear stabs my stomach, that maybe I pushed too much. That’s why a Were is bending over me: to remind me how insignificant I am and say, “I need you to behave, Misery.”

His voice is all hard consonants and narrow eyes, and a shiver runs up my spine, cold and electric. My mind jumps back to Alex’s words: Even his scent was right. Everyone knew that he had the making of an Alpha. I’m no Were, and if I inhale, all I can smell is clean sweat and strong blood, but I think I know what he meant. Somehow I feel it, the compulsion to nod, agree. To do as Lowe wants.

I have to actively stop myself. And shiver in the process.

“At least you are clever enough to be afraid,” he murmurs.

I grit my teeth. “Just cold. You keep the temperature far too low.”

His nostrils flare. “Do as I fucking tell you, Misery.”

“But of course.” My voice is steady, but he knows how rattled I am. Just as I know I’m rattling him. “May I be excused?”

He nods brusquely, and I dart for the door. But then I remember something important I’ve been meaning to ask.

I turn back to him. “Can my cat—”

I stop, because Lowe’s eyes are closed. He’s inhaling deeply, as though gathering every possible air molecule within the room inside his lungs. And he looks . . .

Tormented. In pure, absolute agony. He straightens his expression when he notices that I’m looking, but it’s too late.

My stomach twists with something slimy and unpleasant. Guilt. “I took a bath. Did that not make it better?”

His stare is blank. “Make what better?”

“My scent.”

He swallows visibly. His tone is sharp. “The situation hasn’t improved for me.”

“But how—”

“What were you going to ask, Misery?”

Oh. Right. “I have a cat.”

He scowls like I told him I keep pet centipedes. “You have a cat.”

“Yup.” I stop at that, because Lowe hasn’t earned the right to any explanation for my life choices. Not that anything about Serena’s damn fucking cat was a choice. “He’s currently locked in my room, if your sister didn’t let him out with her pilfered key. Can I let him roam around the house, or will Max try to frame him for racketeering?”

“Your cat is welcome among us,” Lowe says. If that’s not a jab, nothing else is.

“Wonder how that feels,” I say breezily, and slip out of the room without glancing at him again.

CHAPTER 6

Being gone is a relief. And sheer agony.