His smile disappears. “No. The message came across. They think you’re important to me now.”
“Okay.” I scratch my temple and do not ruminate over the fact that he said “they think” instead of “they know.” I should get ready for bed. The sun will be up soon. But it’s such a rare opportunity to study Lowe at will. He’s just—so, so handsome, even to me, someone who’s so different, so chronically weird, that I’m rarely afforded the privilege of noticing these things in others. And yet, the more I know him, the more I find him magnetic. Unique. Genuinely decent, in a world where no one seems to be.
And I’m convinced that his mate would agree with me, but I’m not going to belabor the point. Even if I can’t imagine anyone refusing him. Even if I have developed an attraction toward him, and I’m not even his species.
“You can get changed before sleeping. I’m going to keep my hands off you, even if your pj’s have cute little drops of blood on them.”
“I’m not going to sleep,” he murmurs.
I frown. “Is it a Were thing? You only sleep every third day?”
“It’s a me thing.”
I tear my eyes away from his full lips. “Right. The insomnia. When we were teens, Serena was the same.”
“Yeah?”
He hasn’t moved a muscle, but he sounds genuinely interested, so I continue. “She had horrible nightmares she could never remember. Probably something that happened in the first few years of her life—she had no memories of that period at all.”
“And what would she do?”
“She wouldn’t sleep. Would always look exhausted. We were concerned—me and Mrs. Michaels, who was our caregiver at the time, and a nice one at that. We tried white noise machines. Pills. Those red lights that should have facilitated melatonin production but just made the room look like a brothel. Nothing worked. And then we found the solution by chance, and it was the simplest trick.”
“What was it?”
“Me.” Lowe’s body tightens. “What she needed was someone she trusted, next to her. So I’d hang out in her room. And scratch her.”
“Scratch her.” He sounds skeptical.
“No— Yes, but not what you think. It’s just what we called it. Here—” I lift my hand to his forehead, and after a small hesitation, I press my palm to his hair. It’s at once bristly and soft, not long enough to run my fingers through. I caress it a couple of times, letting my nails brush softly against his scalp, just enough to give him an idea of what Serena used to enjoy, and then pull back to—
His hands dart up, lightning fast.
He doesn’t open his eyes, but his fingers close around my wrist with deadly precision. My heart slams into my chest—shit, I’ve overstepped—until he brings the hand back to his head, as though he wants me to . . .
Oh.
Oh.
He doesn’t let go until I resume the scratching. A ball of something swells in my throat. “You’re so much luckier,” I say, hoping a joke will deflate it.
“Why?” he rasps.
“I just fed. It reduces the clammy, mollusk feel Serena had to deal with.”
He doesn’t smile, but his amusement is thick around us. His dark hair is short, so short, and I wonder if he cuts it like that because the upkeep is easier—no need to style it, ever. I think about how much research I put into the best cuts to hide my ears, about the way Serena enjoyed shopping for clothes and makeup that suited her moods. And then imagine Lowe having no time to do any of that. Having no time for himself.
Like Juno said, his entire life is sacrifice. He was asked for so much, and always said yes, yes, yes.
Oh, Lowe. No wonder you can’t sleep.
“You’re not as terrible a husband as you could be,” I say for no particular reason, continuing to caress him. “I’m sorry you had to give up your entire life for your pack.”
This time he’s definitely smiling. “You did the same.”
“What?” I tilt my head. “No.”
“You spent years among the Humans, knowing that if a very flimsy truce was broken, you’d be the first to be killed. Then you spent more years building a life among the Humans—and now here you are, having given that up. Doing stuff for your people, whom you claim to care so little about.”
“Not for them, for Serena.”
“Yeah? Then what’s your plan, after you find her? Run away together? Disappear? Send the alliance between the Vampyres and Weres into chaos?”
It’s not that I haven’t thought that far. I just don’t like to dwell on the answer. “This marriage is just for one year,” I punt.
“Yeah? Misery, I think you should ask yourself something.” He sounds more tired than I’ve ever heard him.
“What is that?”
“If Serena hadn’t disappeared, would you have been able to say no to your father? Or would you have ended up in this marriage anyway?”
I think about it for a long, long time, watching my fingers trace patterns in Lowe’s hair. And when I think I have an answer—a frustrating, depressing answer—I don’t say it out loud.
Because Lowe, who suffers from something that’s definitely not pneumonia, is breathing softly, and has sunk into a tranquil sleep.
CHAPTER 16
He’s been picturing her during her baths. He’s been having filthy, unspeakable thoughts. He’s too tired to keep them at bay.
The following day, Lowe disappears to do Were things. I wake up in the late afternoon with only vague memories of having crawled into the built-in closet, and find a note tucked under the doors. It’s a piece of white paper, folded once and then again.
On a run, it says.
And, on a new line: Be good.
Followed by: L. J. Moreland.
I snort. For unclear reasons, I don’t toss it in the trash bin, but slip it in the external pocket of my suitcase.
I draw a bath and lower myself into the tepid water. Holding on to garbage is dumb, but I come by it honestly: it’s what Serena used to do with wrappers of rare import candy bars. A maniac-worthy move, in my humble opinion, the way she’d pin them to the wall. A surefire method to spot a future serial murderer, together with pyromania and torturing small animals. When I look at the wrappers, I remember the taste, she told me when we were thirteen and I tried to throw them away. It led to me rolling my eyes, which led to us not talking for two days, which led to me passive-aggressively littering our shared spaces with used blood bags, which led to flies, which led to an explosive showdown in which she couldn’t decide whether to call me a leech or a bitch and blurted out “Bleetch,” which led to us cracking up and remembering that we liked each other.
“Misery?” Lowe’s voice pulls me back. I’m staring vacantly at the stained windows, a faint smile on my lips. “Where are you?”
“Bathroom!”
“Are you dressed?”
I look down and shift the foam around strategically. “Yup.” The door opens a moment later.
Lowe and I regard each other from across the room—him blinking, me staring—with similarly dumbfounded expressions. He clears his throat, twice. Then remembers that looking away is an option. “You said you were dressed.”
“I’m wearing my modesty froth. You, on the other hand.”
He frowns. “I’m wearing jeans.”
Plus a healthy layer of sweat, and nothing else. The curtains are pulled, but sheer. The incoming light is warm, and tints Lowe’s skin a pretty gold—his wide shoulders, his broad, heavily muscled chest. He’s still glowing with the flush of being outside, in nature, and he looks healthy, even with more scars than anyone his age should have—narrow, thin stripes and knotty twists. So I like looking at my husband who’s a different species and fated to be someone else’s mate. Whatever. Take me to court. Impound my nonexistent assets.
“I’ll overlook your nudity if you overlook mine,” I offer.
Lowe’s hand comes up to rub his nape. “I took off my shirt before shifting and lost it. Lemme find a clean one.”
“I don’t care. Plus, you’re sweaty and gross.”
His eyebrow cocks. “Gross?”
I shrug, which maybe misplaces the foam. I’m not sure, nor am I going to check, as the answer could be mortifying. “So, you went frolicking in the mud with Emery?”