“Don’t. Come back! I . . . forbid you from continuing.”

She keeps scaling. “You’re a Vampyre. I don’t think you can tell me what to do.” She sounds more matter-of-fact than bratty, and all I can think of replying is:

“Shit.”

I follow her progress, terrified, wondering if this is motherhood: anxiously picturing your child with her skull cracked open. But Ana knows exactly what she’s doing, and when she has hoisted herself on top of the roof and disappeared from my view, I’m left alone with two separate pieces of knowledge:

I’m befuddlingly invested in the survival of this tiny pest of a Were.

And Lowe, my husband, my roomie, is gone for the night.

I slip inside the bathroom, find one of my hairpins, and do what I have to do.

CHAPTER 7

The scent is growing into more than just a problem. It invades. It swirls. It travels. It sticks to his nose. It concentrates, sometimes.

They rarely touch. When they did, her wrist accidentally brushed against the front of his shirt, and he found himself tearing off the piece of fabric where her smell was most intense. He slipped it in his pocket, and now carries it everywhere.

Even as he leaves to avoid her.

Breaking in takes longer than I expected, but not by much. The lock clicks and I stop, wondering if my guard—a no-bullshit Were named Gemma, I believe—will check in on me. After a minute I decide that I’m safe and push the door open.

Lowe’s room is as beautiful and interesting as mine, the accent wall and beamed ceiling setting a snug, mellow atmosphere. It has less furniture, though, and even though Lowe must have been living here far longer than me, I see two moving boxes stacked in a corner, and a couple of framed paintings leaning against the wall, waiting to be put up.

The soles of my feet are cold as I step on the herringbone hardwood floors. I know exactly what I’m looking for—a phone, a laptop, possibly a diary titled “That Time I Abducted Serena Paris” with an easily breakable lock—but can’t help indulging in some snooping. There are several shelves, lined with classics, fiction, but mostly art books, tall and thick and glossy, the pages full of beautiful sculptures and odd buildings and paintings I’ve never seen before. The bathroom is spotless all over, except for the corner where a unicorn toothbrush, strawberry toothpaste, and no-tear shampoo have been placed. His closet is martial in its orderliness, every shirt monochrome, every pair of pants neatly folded, always khakis or jeans. The sole exception is the suit he wore at our wedding.

My husband, I discover, wears size fourteen shoes.

I search for electronics, to no avail. I really did not need to know that Lowe Moreland hates clutter, that he’s immune to the inevitable accumulation of useless trinkets we’re all subject to. He owns what he needs, and all he needs seems to be one charger, a million pairs of interchangeable boxer briefs, and a bottle of silicone-based lube. I find it in his bedside nightstand, pick it up, and immediately drop it like it’s a nest of wasps.

Okay. I didn’t need to know that he . . . But his lady is off frolicking with my people, and . . . okay. It’s perfectly normal. I’m not going to think about this any longer.

Starting now.

There is one single picture on the wall: a younger Ana and a beautiful middle-aged woman who shares Lowe’s distinctive coloring and sharp cheekbones. The more I study it, the more I notice that aside from the eyes, Ana doesn’t look like her mother at all, nor like Lowe. If they take after their father, they must have grabbed different things.

I search under the pillows, behind the headboard, in the desk. Lowe clearly doesn’t keep a laptop in the bedroom, and this entire break-in is starting to feel like a useless endeavor. I’ve mostly given up when I try the bottom drawer of the dresser and find it shut. Hope gurgles. I run back to my room and retrieve my hairpin.

I’m not sure what I expect from a locked cabinet—maybe Vampyre-fang necklaces, or extra lube he got wholesale, or a drawerful of Wi-Fi cards accompanied by a Hallmark greeting card (“Help yourself, Misery!”). Not a set of pencils and a sketch pad. I frown, picking it up and opening it, gently pulling the pages apart to avoid any ripping.

Initially, I think I’m looking at a photo. That’s how beautiful the art is, how accurate and painstaking. But then I notice the smudges, the lines that sometimes stretch a little too long, and no. This is a drawing—an architectural drawing of a vault, flawlessly executed.

My heart thuds louder, but I couldn’t say why. With trembling fingers, I start turning the pages.

There are sketches of rooms, offices, storefronts, piers, houses, bridges, stations. Large and small buildings, statues, domes, cabins. Some are just the outside, while others include inside layouts and furniture. Some have numbers and vectors scribbled in the margins, others colors woven through them. All of them are perfect.

He’s an architect.

I’d forgotten. Or perhaps I never had a clear idea of what it meant. But looking at these drawings, I feel it as something solid and heavy in my stomach—the love Lowe has for beautiful shapes, exquisite places, interesting sights.

He’s only a few years older than me, but this is not the work of someone who’s untrained. There is expertise here, and passion, and talent, not to mention time, time that I cannot imagine he has to dedicate to beauty and pretty drawings now that he’s the Alpha of his pack, and . . .

It’s too much. I’m thinking about this—about him—way too hard. I shut the sketch pad too forcefully and place it back where I found it. It causes something that was at the very end of the notebook to slip out.

A portrait.

My heart halts as I scramble to lift it up, expecting—no, sure— that I’ll find Serena’s smiling face on it. The pouty lips, upturned eyes, narrow nose, and pointed chin; they’re all so familiar to me that I think it must be her, because who else’s face would I know so well? It can only be Serena’s, or . . .

Mine.

Lowe Moreland has drawn my face, and then stuffed it at the bottom of his bottom drawer. I’m not sure when he observed it long enough to pluck this level of detail out of me, the serious, detached air, the tight-lipped expression, the wispy hair curling around the cusp of an ear. Here’s what I do know: there is something sharp about the drawing. Something searing and intense and expansive that’s simply not there in the other sketches. Force, and power, and lots of feelings were involved in the making of this portrait. Lots. And I can’t imagine they were positive.

I frown. I swallow. I sigh. Then I whisper, “I’m not a fan, either, Lowe. But you don’t see me doodling you with horns in my diary.”

I fold everything back in the drawer, making sure it’s exactly how I found it. On my way out, I let my fingers trail on the bookshelves, wondering once more just how bad my next year with the Weres is going to get.