And once he has me how he wants me, he bends down.

His teeth close around the back of my neck, hard this time, and I am flooded with a filthy, instant kind of pleasure. The cry that I managed to leash earlier burns out of my throat. There’s pressure inside me, heady, scalding, and I can’t bear for it to grow. Lowe’s hand travels down to my stomach, settling me more tightly against him. The curve of my ass finds his groin, and he lets out a satisfied, guttural sound that jolts my nerve endings.

My blood sings. My ears roar. I’m melting.

“Fuck,” he mouths. He runs his tongue over the knob at the top of my spine one last time, as if to soothe the sting of his bite, and suddenly I’m cold. Shivering. When I turn, he’s standing several feet away from me, eyes pitch-black.

The roar in my ears is getting louder—because it wasn’t in my ears at all. A car is driving across the tarmac, toward our plane.

Emery.

“I’m sorry.” Lowe sounds like a rake has run through his vocal box. His fingers twitch at his side, a reflex. Like my hand lingering on the damp spot at the base of my throat.

“I . . .” My hand shifts to massage my nape. I can still feel his touch. “That was . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

My fangs ache, itch, want like never before. I trace them with my tongue to ensure they aren’t on fire, and Lowe watches me do it, every second of it, lips parting. He takes a small, involuntary step toward me, then retreats again, appalled at his lack of control.

This might be new to me, and I may not be a Were, but whatever just happened between us went beyond let me disguise you real quick and straight into something different.

Something sexual.

And if I know it, there is no way he doesn’t.

“Lowe.” We should talk about this. Or never mention it again.

The way he’s looking, he’s opting for the latter. “I’m done,” he says to himself, eyes glassy. “It’s done.”

“Is it better?”

His lips press together. As though there is a flavor he wants to hold in his mouth a moment longer. “Better?”

“My smell. Do I smell like . . . ?”

“Mine.” It’s a rumble in his throat. “You smell like you’re mine, Misery.”

Something charged shimmers through my body.

It is, after all, exactly what we were going for.

CHAPTER 15

She’s not like he imagined. He won’t admit to picturing how she’d be while he was growing up, but there was always something in the back of his head, a faint hope that maybe, one day.

She’s not like he imagined. She’s more, in every possible way.

Emery Messner is petrifying. Mostly because she looks really nice.

I expected unhinged, rabid-looking, bloodthirsty greetings. Unpredictability. Threats of violence. What I find is a sweet woman in her fifties, wearing a Hope Love Courage pin on her cardigan. I’m no great judge of character, but she seems kind, and friendly, and sincerely personable. Her heartbeat is faint, almost reticent. I could picture her baking peanut-free treats to pass around after her children’s soccer practice, but not abducting and murdering people.

“Lowe.” She stops a few feet away from us, hanging her head in salute. When she looks up, her nostrils twitch, undoubtedly smelling what happened between me and Lowe on the plane.

I want to disappear into the ether.

“Welcome to you and your Vampyre bride.” She faces my husband. Who killed her mate. This is so messed up. “Congratulations on your alliance.”

“Emery.” He does not smile. “Thank you for welcoming us to your home.”

“Nonsense. This is your territory, Alpha.” She waves a hand like a gal at brunch. Her eyes flicker back to me, and for a fraction of a second the polite facade crumbles, and I see myself reflected in her eyes.

I’m a Vampyre.

I’m the enemy.

In the current century, my people have been among the top five causes of death for her people. I’m as welcome as a piece of gum stuck under the sole of her pumps.

However, I’m Lowe’s gum, and he’s making it abundantly clear: his hand lingers possessively on the curve of my lower back, and I know enough about self-defense to understand that he positioned himself strategically, and that he plans to shove me behind himself at the slightest sign of intimidation. There’s no way Emery’s guards—all eight of them, evenly split between wolf and Human form—cannot see that. Judging from their tense expressions, they seem to believe that Lowe offers a considerable threat, even this starkly outnumbered.

As his fake wife, I find it flattering.

But Lowe was right, and Emery doesn’t want a fight, at least not now. She forces a strained smile just for me. “Misery Lark.” Her voice oozes civility. “I haven’t seen any of your people in my territory in decades.”

Not alive, for sure. “Thank you for having me.”

“Perhaps it’s time to bury the hatchet. Perhaps new alliances can be formed, now that the old ones are burning to ashes.”

“Perhaps.” I bite the Seems unlikely, though, off my tongue.

“Very well.” Her eyes flicker to my hand. Because, I abruptly realize, Lowe wrapped his own around it. “Follow me, if you please.” She turns her back to us with one last smile. Her guard trickles behind her, flanking her like an armor made of flesh.

Lowe’s fingers squeeze mine. “That was civil of you,” he says under his breath. “Thank you for not causing a diplomatic incident.”

“As if.”

His eyebrows quirk.

“Come on. I wouldn’t.”

The look he gives me telegraphs: You absolutely would.

“I’m not going to piss off the lady who tried to kidnap Ana,” I say, outraged. Then clarify, “I might stab her. But I’m not going to sass her.”

His mouth twitches. “There you are.”

He tugs me toward a black sedan, his hand still holding on to mine.

Dinner is a weird affair, not in the least because I’m served a plate of cavatelli and a glass of red wine that looks enticingly like blood.

It’s standard for the mate and children of the former Alpha to maintain formal relationships with the current leadership, and several Weres have been invited for the weekend. Tonight, though, it’s just the three of us at the table, and I’m too clueless regarding Were affairs to participate in the conversation. I try to follow as they talk about borders, alliances, other packs, but it’s like starting a triple-timeline TV show from season four. Too many plot points, characters, world-building details. What I can do is appreciate the complex dynamics at play during the meal, and the expert way Lowe navigates them. No one mentions that he killed Roscoe, and I’m grateful for that.

We’re escorted to our room early in the morning. There is one bed, which will luckily not lead to any weird sharing situation, because I’ll disappear into the closet the second the sun is up. I gesture at Lowe to sit and lift a finger to my lips. He gives me a confused look but complies without argument, even as I reach for his jeans pocket and take out his phone. For an Alpha, he’s surprisingly good at doing as I say.