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This marriage, it’s going to be a problem. She is going to be a problem.
The birth control shot I was given before coming here was a joke, not just because Lowe and I are as likely to have sex as we are to start a podcast together,
That’s why a Were is bending over me: to remind me how insignificant I am and say, “I need you to behave, Misery.”
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.
“She’s my—” Lowe’s hand jerks up to clutch Max’s jaw. “Apologize to my wife.”
Ana interrupts her bedtime story to communicate to him important, time-sensitive information: “Miresy is so so soooo pretty. I loooove her ears.” He presses his lips together before resuming his reading.
“Are you an actual wolf?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Or are you a Were who part-times?”
“Why did you go to my room? Why did you look through my closet and my drawers?” He leans forward. His voice drops to a half whisper, meant only for my ears. There’s something tortured to it, like he’s in physical pain. “Why did my bed smell like you slept in it?”
Some nights, when he’s walking past her door, he has to whisper to himself: “Keep going.”
I want to ask him why I found a jar of creamy peanut butter in my fridge. If he’s the reason the house is now three degrees warmer than when I arrived.
