Bride

“You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.”

“In fact, I think I might be in love with one.”

“Send a clear message to anyone who smells you. Who you belong to.”

“You should go,” Lowe commands somberly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, yeah.” I flush. I’m acutely aware that I’m half naked and crashing an important pack meeting that’s probably about how to handle their never-ending conflict with my people. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” But he’s crossing to me, and when the seconds stand, I realize that I’m not the one being dismissed.

When my fingers disappear into my cleavage to hide the USB, his breath hitches.

Because Lowe, who suffers from something that’s definitely not pneumonia, is breathing softly, and has sunk into a tranquil sleep.

“Mine.” It’s a rumble in his throat. “You smell like you’re mine, Misery.”

“I fucking love your scent.”

“It’s hard to explain dominance to someone who doesn’t have the hardware to understand it.”

We’ll try, then. Isn’t that what any relationship is, in the end? Meeting someone and wanting to be with that person more than with anyone else, and trying to make it work.