Bride(59)

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?”

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.