Bride (Bride, #1)

by Ali Hazelwood

This marriage, it’s going to be a problem. She is going to be a problem.

“Does your father hate you?” “Excuse me?” We’re still swaying. Cameras click around us like insects in the summertime. Maybe I misheard. “Your father. I need to know if he hates you.” I meet Moreland’s eyes, more baffled than offended. And perhaps a little peeved that I cannot insist that my one living parent gives a shit about me. “Why?” “If you’re going to be under my protection, I need to know these things.” I cock my head up at him. His face is so . . . not handsome, even though it is, but striking. All-consuming. Like he invented bone structure. “Am I? Under your protection?” “You’re my wife.”

Some guy took it without asking, while we were dangling our feet in the water. Then he showed it to us and said he’d only return it if one of us gave him our number. We did the only logical thing: caught him in a headlock and forcibly took the photo.

“She’s a Vampyre!” “She’s my—” Lowe’s hand jerks up to clutch Max’s jaw. “Apologize to my wife.”

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

An “I’m sorry” stumbles out of my mouth. “Sorry?” The word vibrates through my skin. “Because.” My knees are buckling, so I lock them. I still feel like I might lose my bearings, so I blindly reach up. Find Lowe’s shoulder. Grasp it for dear life. “I know you don’t like my scent.” “I fucking love your scent.” “So the baths did work— Oh.”

“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.”

“You think, but you don’t know. You don’t know anything about what it’s like to find your other half,” he continues, voice low and sharp. “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.”

“Above all, I won’t take her freedom. Not when so many others have already done so.”

“I could fuck you very nicely right now,” he says into my ear. He sounds honest, and a bit resigned. “I almost did.” “I’m sorry. I never imagined it would lead to . . .” “I know. I’m just really . . .” His lips move against my forehead, soft and warm. “I’ve never felt like this.” “Like what?” “Turned on. Smitten. And . . . and other things.” I feel the exact same.

Whoever did this will pay. Slowly. Painfully.

“Of all the good things I’ve felt in my fucking life, you are the best.”

“Nice. Very. I am profoundly obsessed with these.” I feel hot air against my skin, and realize he’s talking about my ears.

“I get it, feeling pinned down by the mate thing.” I take a hurried step back, suddenly wondering whether this conversation requires physical distance. “It has to be hard, to feel like you couldn’t walk away even if you wanted to. Like someone is going to be your problem forever—” He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.”