Bride(40)

“Is this the smell-a-lie thing? Does it really work?”

This time he’s less impressed by my knowledge of Were secrets. Perhaps because they aren’t secrets at all. “Not always. But scent changes with feelings. And feelings change with behavior.”

I scowl. “I still can’t believe you knew Max was lying all along and still put a guard on me.”

“I put a guard on you for your safety.”

“Oh.” He did? I had not considered that. It takes a long second for my assessment of the last five days to adjust, and . . . Oh, indeed. “I can take care of myself.”

“Against a young Were with no combat training, yes. Against someone like me, doubtful.”

I could scoff and be offended, but I like to think that I know my limits. “Does it build up?”

“What?”

“The odor. Just wondering if that’s why I smell like fish soup to you. Have I lied too much in my life?”

It’s a genuine question, but Lowe sighs deeply and leaves me hanging. He puts the food back in the fridge, with one glaring exception: the peanut butter. My gluttonous brain must be strained by the biological possibility of Were-Humans, because it dispatches my hand to scoop up a little glob from the rim, right to my lips, and it’s been so long, it’s so fucking good—

“What the hell?”

I open my eyes. Lowe stares curiously at the way I’m suckling on my index finger.

“Did you just eat?”

“No.” I flush, mortified. “No,” I repeat, but the peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth, garbling the syllable.

“I was told Vampyres don’t eat food.”

I can’t remember the last time I felt this degree of embarrassment. “Serena made me,” I blurt out.

Lowe glances around, to the zero number of Serenas in sight.

“Not now. But she made me try it for the first time.” I wipe my finger off on my shirt. Humiliating. “The ensuing addiction was all mine,” I concede with a mumble.

“Interesting.” His gaze is sharp, and he seems more than interested. He seems intrigued.

“Please kill me now.”

“So you can digest food.”

“Some of it. Our molars are mostly vestigial, so no chewing, but peanut butter is smooth and creamy and I know it’s wrong, but . . .” I shiver with how amazing it tastes. And with how shameful and self-indulgent food eating is considered among Vampyres. Not even living among the Humans has beaten the belief out of me. Not even watching Serena scarf down three cups of instant udon noodles at two a.m. because she felt “a bit peckish.” “This is so undignified. Can you please not tell anyone and throw my corpse in the lake after I run myself through the garbage disposal, which I’m going to do right now?”

His lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. “You’re embarrassed.”

“Of course.”

“Because you’re eating something you don’t need to survive?”

“Yes.”

“I eat for pleasure all the time.” He shrugs, as though his broad shoulders want to agree with him. We have a healthy appetite. We require nourishment. “Just pretend it’s blood.”

“It’s not the same. Vampyres don’t drink blood for pleasure. We scarf it down when we need to and then don’t think about it. It’s a bodily function. Like, I don’t know, peeing.”

He takes a seat across from me and—fuck him. I hate him so much for the way he pushes the jar in my direction, holding my eyes the entire time.

He is daring me.

And it says something about how far gone I am for this stupid, addictive nut paste that I’m considering having a little more.

And then I just do.

“What do Vampyres do for pleasure?” he asks, voice a little hoarse. I don’t want to flash my fangs at him, but it’s hard when I’m licking peanut butter off my fingers.

“Not sure.” My time among them was exclusively as a child, when rules abounded, and indulgences were in short supply. Owen, the only adult Vampyre with whom I have regular exchanges, enjoys gossiping and making caustic remarks. Father has his strategic maneuvers and soft-core coups d’état. How the others amuse themselves in their spare time, I have no idea. “Fucking, probably? Please, take this away from me.”

He doesn’t. Instead he stares too long and too intensely, rejoicing in my lack of control. When he lowers his eyes, it seems to require some effort.

“What could Serena be investigating?” His voice is gravelly. And sobering.

“She never mentioned the Weres to me, not even in passing. But she didn’t love her colleagues in the financial division. Maybe she was angling for a better job and exploring nonfinancial stories. Though she would have told me.” Would she? She was clearly hiding stuff from you, a nagging voice offers. I shush it. “I do know that she wouldn’t have gone public with a story that had the potential to endanger a child.”

I’m not sure Lowe believes me, but he strokes his jaw, carefully gathering his thoughts. “Either way, our priorities match.”

“We both want to find out who told Serena about Ana.” For the first time since this sham marriage—no, for the first time since that hag Serena didn’t show up to help me change my sheets, I feel a real, genuine burst of hope. L. E. Moreland is not just a stray breadcrumb, but a thread to hold on to and tug at.