Start reading the prologue from the new swoon-worthy paranormal romance, Bride.

Prologue

           This marriage, it's going to be a problem. 

               She is going to be a problem. 

This war of ours, the one between the Vampyres and the Weres, began several centuries ago with brutal escalations of violence, culminated amid flowing torrents of varicolored blood, and ended in a whimper of buttercream cake, on the day I met my husband for the first time.

Which, as it happens, was also the day of our wedding.

Not quite the stuff of childhood dreams. Then again, I'm no dreamer. I only ever contemplated marriage once, back in the gloomy days of my childhood. Following a few too-harsh punishments and a poorly executed assassination attempt, Serena and I concocted plans of a grand escape, which was going to involve pyrotechnics-based diversions, stealing our math tutor's car, and flipping off our caregivers in the rearview mirror.

"We'll stop by the animal shelter and adopt one of those shaggy dogs. Pick up a Slurpee for me, some blood for you. Disappear forever into Human territory."

"Will they let me in if I'm not Human?" I asked, even though that was the least of our plan's flaws. We were both eleven. Neither of us could drive. Interspecies peace in the Southwest region relied, quite literally, on me staying the hell put.

"I'Il vouch for you."

"Will that be enough?"

"I'Il marry you! They'll believe you're Human--my Human wife."

As proposals went, it seemed solid. So I nodded solemnly and said, "I accept."

That was fourteen years ago, though, and Serena never married me. In fact, she's long gone. I'm here alone, with a giant heap of expensive wedding favours that'll hopefully fool guests into overlooking the lack of love, genetic compatibility, or even previous acquaintance between me and the groom.

I did try to arrange a meeting. Suggested to my people to suggest to his people that we could grab lunch the week before the ceremony. Coffee the previous day. A glass of tap water the morning of--anything to avoid a "How do you do?" in front of the officiant. My request was escalated to the Vampyre council, and resulted in a phone call from one of the members' aides. His tone managed to be polite while heavily implying that I was cuckoo nitbird. "He's a Were. A very powerful and dangerous one. Just the logistics of providing security for such a meeting would be--"

"I'll be marrying this dangerous Were." I pointed out evenly, and a bashful throat was cleared.

He is an Alpha, Miss Lark Too busy to meet."

"Busy with?"

"His pack, Miss Lark."

I pictured him in a home gym, tirelessly working on his abs, and shrugged.

Ten days have passed, and I have yet to meet my groom Instead, I've become a project—one that requires a concerted effort from an interdisciplinary crew to look weddable. A manicurist coaxes my nails into pink ovals. A facialist smacks my cheeks with relish. A hairdresser magically hides my pointed ears under a web of dark blond braids, and a makeup expert paints a different face on top of mine, something interesting and sophisticated and zygomatic.

"This is art," I tell him, studying the contouring in the mirror. "You should be a Guggenheim fellow."

"I know. And I'm not done," he reprimands, before dipping his thumb in a pot of dark green stain and swiping

it over the inside of my wrists. The base of my throat on both sides. My nape.

"What's this?"

"Just a bit of colour."

"What for?"

A snort. "I pulled strings and researched Were customs. Your husband will like it." He whooshes away, leaving me alone with five odd markings and a newfound bone structure. I squeeze into the bridal pantsuit that the stylist begged me not to refer to as a onesie, and then my twin brother comes to retrieve me.

"You look stunning," Owen says flatly, distrustfully, squinting at me like I'm a fake ten-dollar bill.

"It was a team effort."

He gestures for me to follow him. "I hope they vaccinated you for rabies while they were at it."

The ceremony is supposed to be a symbol of peace. That's why, in a heartwarming display of trust, my father demanded an all-Vampyre armed security detail for the ceremony. The Weres refused, which led to weeks of negotiations, then to a near-break of the engagement, and finally to the only solution that could make everybody equally unhappy: staffing the event with Humans.

There's a tense atmosphere, and then there's this. One venue, three species, five centuries of conflict, and zero good faith The black suits escorting Owen and me seem to between protecting us and killing us themselves, just to get it over with. They wear sunglasses indoors and mutter entertainingly bad code into their sleeves. Bat is flying to the ceremony hall I repeat, we have Bat.

The groom is, uninventively, Wolf.

"When do you think your future husband will try to kill you?" Owen asks conversationally, looking straight ahead. "Tomorrow? Next week?"

"Who's to say."

"Within the month, for sure."

"For sure."

"One has to wonder if the Weres will bury your corpse or just, you know. Eat it."

"One has to."

But if you care to live a bit longer, try tossing a stock when he starts mauling you. I hear Weres love to fetch--"

I halt abruptly, causing a slight commotion among the agents. "Owen," I say, turning to my brother. 

"Yes, Misery?" His eyes hold mine. Suddenly, his indolent, insult-comedian mask slips off, and he's not my father's shallow heir anymore, but the brother who'd sneak into bed with me whenever I had nightmares, who swore he'd protect me from the cruelty of the Humans and the bloodthirsty of the Weres. 

It's been decades.

"You know what went down the last time the Vampyres and Weres tried this," he says, shifting to the Tongue.

I sure do. The Aster is in every textbook, albeit with vastly different interpretations. The day the purple of our blood and the green of the Weres' flowed together, bright and beautiful as the blooming flower the massacre was named after. "Who the hell would enter a marriage of political convenience after that?"

"Me, apparently."

"You are going to live among the wolves. Alone."

"Right. That's how hostage exchanges work." Around us, the suits hriedly check their watches. "We have to go--"

"Alone to be slaughtered." Owen's jaw grinds. It's so unlike his usual careless self, I frown.

"Since when do you care?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because an alliance with the Weres is necessary to the survival of--"

"These are Father's words. It's not why you agreed to do this."

It's not, but I'm not about to admit it. "Maybe you underestimate Father's persuasiveness."

His voice drops to a whisper. "Don't do this. It's a death sentence. Say you've changed your mind give me six weeks."

"What will have changed in six weeks?"

He hesitates. "A month. I—"

"Is something amiss?" We both jump at Father's sharp tone. For a split second we're children again, again

scolded for existing. As always, Owen recovers quicker.

"Nah." The vacuous smile is back on his lips. "I was just giving Misery a few pointers."

Father cuts through the security guards and tucks my hand into his elbow with ease, like it hasn't been a decade since our last physical contact. I force myself not to recoil. "Are you ready, Misery?"

I cock my head. Study his stem face. Ask, mostly out of curiosity, "Does it matter?"

It must not, because the question isn't acknowledged. Owen watches us leave, expressionless, then yells after us, "Hope you packed a lint roller: I hear they shed."