Bride

by Ali Hazelwood

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.

Lowe Moreland has drawn my face, and then stuffed it at the bottom of his bottom drawer.

Some nights, when he’s walking past her door, he has to whisper to himself: “Keep going.”

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

“I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.”

“She wouldn’t admit it—she might not even realize it herself, but she’s the kind of person who would feel beholden to me. She would think I need her. When what I really need is for her to be happy, whether it’s with me, or alone, or with someone else.”

I was always alone, at the border between those two worlds. The fact that I feel more at home than ever before with a Were, with someone whose proximity I should have never been in … There’s something wrong about it. Or painfully right.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs into my temple. “I thought so since they gave me that first picture of you. You came walking down the aisle, and I was afraid to look. I hadn’t even smelled you yet, and I already couldn’t stop myself from staring.”