Bride (Bride, #1)

by Ali Hazelwood

“Did you just joke about your people drinking my people dry?”

“The Vampyres don’t claim you as one of them unless they have something to gain from it. You chose to be among the Humans, but you had to lie about your identity, because you’re not one of them. And you’re definitely not one of us. You truly belong nowhere, Miss Lark.”

I tried my best to dissuade her from adopting it. She tried her best to pretend she didn’t hear me. Then, about three days after taking home thirteen pounds of asshole from the shelter, she vanished into the ether. Poof.

I fed her damn fucking cat as he meowed like he was approaching starvation and hissed at me at the same time;

She was wearing a sequined dress, and when she lifted her hand to pinch my cheeks, I noticed that her antique bracelet was made of very unusually shaped, very pretty pearls. They were fangs. Pulled from the corpses of Vampyres—or live ones, for all I know.

“There have been, um, suggestions, that you might want to store your, um . . . things in the other fridge over there. So if you please could . . . If it were possible . . . If it isn’t a bother . . .” I end his suffering. “Don’t keep my gory blood bags next to the mayo jar. Got it.”

Can I let him roam around the house, or will Max try to frame him for racketeering?”

can relate, since I grew up fairly sure that if I misbehaved, a Were would crawl up the toilet to eat my ass.

Lowe clicks his tongue. “Stop playing with your food, wife,”

“Ana’s potty-trained. Not by me, obviously—I’d have somehow managed to teach her to piss out of her nose.”

“Did you have a Vampyre girlfriend?” I point at my ring finger. “Once you go Vamp, you can never go back, huh?”

“God, you’re just so fluffy. And . . . sorry, but you’re kinda cute. I know you could murder me in less time than it takes to stick a straw in a blood bag. But you’re soft. And your coat is not even sparkly pink. I don’t know what you were embarrassed about, you majestic fluffball—yes, fine, I’m going.”

“Stop eye-fucking each other in front of me—this is incest. Bestiality, at the very least. Misery.”

“Text me when you’re done chasing moles, or smelling each other’s buttholes, or whatever,” I yell after them. “I’m going to Lowe’s!”

He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.”