Page 15 of Bride

Several of the guests exhale in relief. Not me, though. Not yet.

“Anything you’d like to say?” Moreland asks, this time to the Were child. The boy blinks several times before looking at the ground with a pout.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, ther’s rounded intow’s. He looks on the verge of crying, but then dissolves into laughter when Moreland ruffles his hair and picks him up, effortlessly wedging him under his arm like a football. He turns around, giving his back to the group of Vampyres assembled around the Sextons, and returns the little Were to his table.

Just like that, the tension relaxes. Vampyres and Weres return to their seats with a few lingering looks of distrust. The music resumes. My husband makes his way back to the bottom of the stairs, without lifting his eyes or noticing me, and I finally let out the breath I was holding.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Tell the others, too,” he quietly orders the ginger and the older Were, who nod and leave to mix with the guests. Moreland sighs, and I wait for a handful of seconds, hoping he’ll join them and clear my way.

Two handfuls.

What feels a lot like a minute.

A minute andmorehandfuls—

“I know you’re there,” he says, not looking at anyone in particular. I have no idea who he’s addressing until he adds, “Come down, Miss Lark.”

Oh.

Well.

This is nicely mortifying.

There are about ten steps separating us, and Icouldcrawl my way down in shame. But our species have been mortal enemies since electricity wasn’t a thing, which might put us beyond embarrassment. What’s some eavesdropping among foes?

“In your own time,” he adds wryly.

Given the... incident a couple of hours ago, I’m hesitant to go stand next to him. But perhaps I shouldn’t have worried: when I reach his side, his nostrils twitch and a muscle jumps in his jaw, but that’s about it. Moreland doesn’t look my way, nor does he seem too tempted to mangle me.

Progress.

Still, I have no idea what to say. So far we’ve only exchanged recited promises that neither of us means to keep, and some commentary on my body odor. “You can call me Misery.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah. I probably should.”

We fall into silence. In the far corner of the courtyard, what seems to be another small ruckus involving a Were and Vampyre nearly pops up, but it’s swiftly curbed by a Were woman I vaguely remember standing by the altar.

“Do we have another interspecies brawl?” I ask.

Moreland shakes his head. “Just some idiot who drank too much.”

“Not from a Were, I hope.”

I regret the words the second they’re out of my mouth. I’m not usually a nervous blabberer, because I’m not usuallynervous. One doesn’t serve as the Collateral for a decade without learning a baffling number of anxiety management strategies. And yet.

“Did you just joke aboutyourpeople drinkingmypeople dry?”

I close my eyes. Death would be nice, right now. I’d welcome it with open arms. “It was in terrible taste. I apologize.” I look up at him, and there they are. Those eerie, unearthly, beautiful eyes, glowing at me in the dim lights, a chilling green that borders on feral. I wonder if I’ll get used to them. If one year from now, when this arrangement is complete, I’ll still think them bizarrely lovely.

I wonder what Serena thought when she first saw them.

“They’re expecting us,” Moreland says curtly. My apology dangles, not accepted, not rejected.

“Who?”

He points at the orchestra. The viola player lifts her bow in the air for a beat, and then the music switches gears. Not Rachmaninoff, but a slow, instrumental rendition of a pop song I’ve heard in line at the grocery store. Did Moreland approve of this? I bet the planner went rogue.

“First dance,” he says, holding out his hand. His voice is deep, precise, economical. A man who’s used to giving orders and having them answered. I look at his long fingers, remembering how they closed on my arm. That moment of fear. Thing is, I don’tfeela lot, and when I do—

---