Page 14 of Bride

“Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned her. It’s a secret, of course, but...” He chuckles deep in his throat and tips his glass at me.

“Did you say ‘mate’? Like a spouse?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge, Miss Lark. Or should I say, Mrs. Moreland?”

“Shit,” I mutter softly, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Was Moreland married before? If that’s the case, I cannot comprehend how pissed he must be at the prospect of being shackled tomewhile his wife is far away, first in line to the slaughter. Maybe that’s why he flipped earlier?

That, and how I apparently smell like rotten eggs.

Well, tough shit, I tell myself as I push away from the railing. He and Father are the masterminds of this marriage.Iam the masterminded. Hopefully he’ll remember that and not direct his anger at me. “A pleasure chatting with you, governor,” I lie, waving goodbye.

“If you decide to change it, call my office.” He makes the phone hand gesture, the one old people use. “I can speed up the paperwork.”

“Excuse me?”

“The name.”

“Ah. Yes, thank you.”

I head downstairs, in search of Owen. I think I saw him deep in conversation with Councilman Cintron earlier—gossiping, which he can do like a pro. I bet he can find out more about thismatebusiness. Chances are, he already knew but didn’t say anything because he found the thought of this poor woman jumping up in the middle of the ceremony to objecthilarious, and wanted to see a rabid wolf eat my pancreas for being a home-wrecker in front of the upper crust of Vampyre society.

“—never heard of anything like it.”

I halt abruptly, because—

My husband.

My husband is here, at the bottom of the stairs.

He got rid of his jacket, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up. Two people stand with him: a Were with a ginger beard—the best man, if I’m not mistaken—and another, older, gray-haired, with a deep white scar on his neck. Their expressions are somber, and Moreland’s arms are crossed on his chest.

It’s a scene I’ve come across before, with my father: a powerful man, hearing important information from people he trusts. The last thing I want is to walk past them right now, in close competition with the second to last—reprising my conversation with the governor. Still, I’m ready to go back and hear more about the failures of my given name, until:

“—the consequences, if it really isher,” the best man continues.

It’s theherthat stops me in my tracks. Because it feels like it might be referring to...

Moreland presses his lips together. His jaw clenches and he says something, but his voice is deeper, lower than his companions’. I cannot make out the words over the background noises.

“It must have been a moment of confusion. She cannot be your—” The string music suddenly soars, and I inch closer, just one step down the stairs.

Lowe’s broad back stiffens. I’m afraid he heard me move, but he doesn’t turn. I relax when he says, “You think it’s a mistake I would make?”

The older man freezes. Then hangs his head, apologetic. “I do not, Alpha.”

“We need to change our plans, Lowe.” The ginger. “Find other accommodations. You shouldn’t live with—” A commotion erupts in the hall, and their heads lift in its direction. When I follow suit, my stomach drops.

A short distance away, two children are bawling. They are toddlers, one with dark skin and lilac eyes, the other pale and blue-eyed. A Vampyre and a Were. Between them lies a dark blue superhero action figure, broken in two at the waist. And next to them, clutching their respective sons, are a Vampyre father and a Were mother. Who, for reasons I cannot divine, thought that bringingchildrenhere would be a good idea, and now are showing their fangs at each other. Growling. Drawing the attention of the other guests, who start to gather around them protectively. Or maybe aggressively.

The music stops when the noise in the room rises to a panicked pitch. A small crowd surrounds the kids, and the Human guards join it, drawing their weapons and bringing firearms into the mess. My heart thumps dully in my chest as the tension grows fat and sticky, the start of another massacre that will go down in the history books—

“Here.”

Lowe Moreland kneels between the children, and the roomdrops to a deafening silence. The Vampyre’s father, whom I now recognize as Councilman Sexton, pushes his son behind his legs, upper lip peeled back to reveal his long canines.

“It’s all good,” Moreland says. Calm. Reassuring. Not to the father, but to the child. As he holds out the intact action figure—not broken, after all.

The boy hesitates. Then his hand darts out from between his father’s knees to collect his toy, mouth widening into a toothy smile.

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