He clears his throat. “What else does it entail?”
I’m not sure what to make of this line of questioning on Vampyre physiology, but he was forthcoming when I asked the same about the Weres. “Mostly just that. Some senses are heightened, too.” The scent of Lowe’s blood, but also everything else that makes him him, is sharper in my nostrils. It has me wondering if I still smell like him.
Which has me thinking of what happened earlier.
Not that it was ever far from my mind. “In the plane. When you were marking me.” I expect him to act embarrassed, or dismissive. He just holds my gaze. “Not to make a weird situation even weirder, but it seemed like it was . . .”
“It was.” He briefly closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take advantage.”
“I— Me neither.” I was as much into it as he was. More, probably.
“It’s the act of it. It’s something that usually happens between mates, or in serious romantic relationships. It’s intrinsically sexually charged.”
Oh. “Right.” I’m a bit mortified to have assumed he was attracted to me. Not because I don’t think I’m attractive—I’m hot, and fuck you, Mr. Lumiere, for saying that I looked like a spider—but because Lowe has Gabi. Someone he’s biologically hardwired to focus the entirety of his attraction on.
“I’d never done it before,” he says. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”
Hold up. “You’d never done it? You’d never marked anyone before?”
He shakes his head and starts taking off his boots.
“But you have a mate. You said so.”
He moves to the other shoe. Without looking up. “I also said it’s not always reciprocated.”
“But yours—yours is, right? You said so.” Gabrielle. She’s the Collateral now, but before, they were together. They probably met in Zurich. Ate that cheese with the holes together, all the time.
“Did I?”
I cover my mouth with my palm. “Shit. No.” I stalk across the room to the bed, but once I’m sitting next to Lowe, I have no idea what to do.
What did the governor say at the wedding? That the Were Collateral was his mate. But he never said that they were together. As a matter of fact, no one in the pack ever acted as though Lowe was in a relationship with her. Ana never mentioned Gabi, not even in passing. There were no signs of her in Lowe’s bedroom.
His mate, the governor said, and it makes sense that Lowe would share that, to guarantee that he was handing off a valuable Collateral. But no one ever said that Lowe was her mate.
“Does she know? That she’s your mate, I mean.”
A micropause, and then he shakes his head. As though reaffirming a decision. “She doesn’t. And she won’t.”
“Why won’t you tell her?”
“I won’t burden her with the knowledge.”
“Burden? She’d be into that! You’re basically swearing eternal love to her—and you’re kind of a catch. I used to vet all of Serena’s dating app matches; I’ve seen what’s out there. The pool is shallow. As far as I know, you have zero criminal convictions, a house, a car, a pack, and . . . okay, a wife, but I’m happy to help you clear that out.” I wonder why I’m being so proactive about this. I’m not the kind to want to meddle with other people’s love lives, but . . . maybe it has to do with this heavy feeling deep in my stomach. Maybe I’m just overcompensating my irrational disappointment with enthusiasm. “Honestly, she’ll be stoked.” She’s the current Collateral, she’s probably as perfectly self-immolating as he is, and—something occurs to me. “Is it about your sister? You think she won’t accept Ana?”
He exhales a laugh and goes to put his shoes away. “The opposite. Ana would be delighted, too.” He checks that the door is locked and comes back to bed. “Scooch over,” he orders, pointing at the side of the bed that’s farthest from the entrance.
I obey without hesitating. “What if she feels the same about you?”
“She can’t.”
The mattress dips with his weight. He lies back, still wearing his jeans and shirt. The back of his head sinks into the pillow as he crosses his arms on his chest. The bed is king-size and still a little too short for him, but he doesn’t complain.
“Maybe she doesn’t have the hardware. Maybe she doesn’t feel the same biological pull toward you that you feel toward her. But she could still develop feelings.” I toe my shoes off and kneel next to him. Is he going to sleep? “You could still date her.”
“We’re still talking about this,” he drawls without opening his eyes.
“Yes.”
“What about now?”
“Yup.” No, I’m not going to examine my interest in the topic. “Frankly, it’s a bit childish, this all-or-nothing attitude of yours. You could still have a—”
He props up on his elbow. One second I’m staring at his handsome, relaxed face, the next his eyes burn bright into mine and I can feel his breath, warm over my lips. They still taste faintly like blood.
Something charges between us. Something ready.
“You think that the reason I won’t tell her is that a small part of her wouldn’t be enough?” he growls. “You think that I would care, if she were to love me less than I love her? That this is a matter of pride for me? Of greed? Is that why you think I’m childish?”
I open my mouth. A wave of heat—embarrassment, confusion, something else—slams over my body. “I . . .”
“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.”
My heart pounds in my chest, my cheeks, my fingertips. I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“But I won’t take from her.” His eyes leave mine and steadily trail down my face. They stop at the neckline of my dress. Tonight I’m wearing our wedding band as a necklace, and he studies the way it disappears into the curve of my breasts. His gaze lingers, leisurely, for what feels like hours but is probably a brief moment. Then it moves back up. “Above all, I won’t take her freedom. Not when so many others have already done so.”
That aggressive energy between us dissipates as quickly as it formed, melting like salt in water. Slowly, comfortably, with one last glance at my lips, Lowe settles back on the bed. His arms come up to lace behind his skull.
“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.”
His eyes flutter closed again. I manage to gulp in some air, and I watch his body relax from a tense, angry line, back to soft strength.
I’m utterly ashamed. And other things that I’m unlikely to be able to articulate. My hands are trembling, so I curl my fists into the cotton coverlet. “I’m sorry. I went too far.”
“My feelings are mine to deal with. Not hers.”
I cannot help myself. I lick my lips and say, “It’s just—”
“Misery.”
It’s that tone again. The Alpha one. The one that makes me want to say yes to him, over and over again.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, but I think I’m forgiven. I think Lowe is simply too big a person to hold grudges. I think Lowe is too fucking principled for his own good, and doesn’t deserve to have his heart broken, or his life only half full. “Shall I retreat into the closet in shame? So you don’t have to see me?”
His mouth twitches. Definitely forgiven. “I can just turn the other way.”
“Right. Will you have to . . . scent me again? Tomorrow?”