“If you think that’s what it was, you need better ones.”

“Better what?”

“Compliments.”

I look up once more. He’s staring, his eyes halfway between unreadable and indecipherable. “What do you mean?”

“You need to be told the right things.” He shrugs casually, but the movement feels the opposite of casual. “That you’re intelligent, and incredibly skilled at what you do, and brave. That despite your weird belief that you’re heartless, you’re more genuinely caring than anyone I’ve ever met. That you’re so resilient, I can’t quite wrap my head around it. That you’re very . . .” He pauses. Wets his lips. My heartbeat skips. “Very beautiful to look at. Always so beautiful. And that—”

He pauses abruptly, lifting his palm. His shoulders tense, shifting to acute vigilance.

“Someone is coming,” he whispers.

“Emery?” I mouth. I can’t make out any noises, but Were hearing is better than mine.

Lowe shakes his head, and two seconds later I hear them, too. Voices. Two voices. Two men, coming down the stairs.

“Emery’s guards,” he says, barely audible.

The possibility of being caught freezes me. Then the image of Ana pops into my head—the way Emery tried to take her, how terribly she might have hurt her, and fear, real fear drives through me like a spear. We can’t go back home empty-handed.

“Don’t,” I whisper when Lowe is about to turn off the computer. The steps sound terrifyingly closer. “It just needs a couple more minutes.”

“If they come in and find us—”

“They won’t.” I turn off the monitor. “And we’ll—”

I have an idea, but it’s easier shown than explained, so I grasp Lowe’s hand and tug him closer, walking backward until I hit one of the square columns on the sides of the fireplace. The cliché almost makes my teeth hurt, and if Emery’s guards are media literate even just at a third-grade level, they’re not going to fall for it. But it might buy us a couple of minutes, and that’s all that matters.

“Kiss me,” I order, pulling him farther into me. He needs to be inside my space, towering over me.

“What?” Lowe’s brow is one deep furrow.

“Let’s just pretend we got—we’re newly married and got, I don’t know, horny, and—” And ended up in a random office. Maybe we’re kinky. Maybe we’re idiots. Maybe we’re pathetic.

Shit, the guards are never gonna fall for it. And they’re coming.

“They think you’re feeding,” Lowe hisses from above me. If I could devote any brain cells to not panicking, I would roll my eyes.

“I know, but since we’re here, and they are basically here—”

“Feed. From me.” He looks dead serious.

“What?”

“Pretend that’s what we came here for.”

“No! It’s—”

Actually, a pretty good idea. A really good idea, even. Still doesn’t explain why we’re in here. We could say we got lost and it was the first unlocked door we found.

“Okay.” I nod. The steps are getting closer. “Tilt your neck, I’ll pretend I’m drinking from your vein.”

“Misery.” His eyes drill into mine. “You have to bite me.”

“Why?”

“They’re Weres. They’re going to be able to smell it if you’re not really drinking.”

“What? What? I’ve never—”

“Misery,” Lowe orders, or maybe it’s a plea, or maybe my name is just a word he likes to say, a word he likes to think of.

A second later, my fangs sink into the vein at the base of his neck.

Two seconds later, the door to the office opens.

CHAPTER 17

The past year notwithstanding, he was always comfortable with sex and everything that came with it. He knew what he liked, and he knew how to get it. He was content.

Now he can’t remember what satisfaction felt like.

It’s surprising how smoothly it all goes, especially considering how new we both are at this.

There’s Lowe, who cannot possibly have a clue of what to expect. There’s me, a notoriously bad Vampyre. And then there are some very shitty circumstances. Like how mauled we’re about to get.

And yet, even without knowing what to do, I know exactly what to do. I know to draw the tip of my nose across the base of his throat to find the perfect spot. I know to stop where his blood smells the sweetest and his skin forms the thinnest veil. I know to press my lips to his flesh in a brief, indulgent moment of silent gratitude. Above all, I know without any trace of doubt, or hesitation, or fear, to bite. My canines might be unused, but they are plenty sharp, guided by instinct if not experience. And after a brief, suspended moment of screaming disorientation, Lowe’s blood fills my mouth.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. And not because I’ve only ever fed from chilly, refrigerated bags, and in comparison, this feels scorching as fire. I think it has to do with the fact that . . .

The fact that this is Lowe. And his blood tastes like blood, yes, but it’s also spicy, coppery, a thrill on the back of my tongue. His blood tastes like his scent, and his smiles, and his hands lingering on my skin. Like the serious way he stares into the distance and rubs his jaw when he’s worrying about Ana. His blood is everything that he is, and I’m drinking of it. It’s the most delicious, the most earth-shattering, the most inside-out moment of my entire life.

And then the first few drops hit my stomach, and everything changes.

Mere feet from us, things are happening. I hear them distantly, dreamily: gasps; a frantic, hushed conversation that includes words like Lowe, and wife, and feeding; a rushed, panicked apology; a door slamming closed. But all I can think of is . . .

“Misery,” Lowe grunts.

Warmth. I’m feverishly, beautifully warm. And empty. And bursting. And dizzy. Liquefying. And I feel like I need, need, need.

I need more. I need Lowe to be closer.

“Misery,” he breathes.

I don’t know when, but my hands have hiked up to his shoulders. I moan into his neck, unable to stop myself. I want to climb under his skin. I want him to slide under mine. I want to give him every last thing he asks for.

“Fuck.” His breath is shallow against my temple. I think he gets it, though, because he does exactly what I’m unable to beg for: his hand travels down my spine to cup my ass, and he holds me to himself while my legs wrap around him. My breasts are achy and tender, my core throbs, and there’s an alarm in my head telling me that I should stop, that I’m drinking too much. It’s killed into silence the moment Lowe winds his fingers into the thick hair at my nape and orders: “Take more.”

I moan a blissful hum into his skin. Something wet and eager bursts inside me, spills into my stomach.

“Misery. Misery.” He scoops my head deeper into his neck. Bucks against me in a way that feels not wholly voluntary. “Take all you need.”

I cling to him like I’d die if he let go, desperate for friction. My hips grind against his abs, seeking relief, and when the contact feels good, I need more. More blood, more Lowe, more of the stretching, rocking, taut feeling coasting inside me.