Bride Ali Hazelwood Quotes

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

Maybe you're not meant for me the way I'm meant for you, but I'm going to choose you anyway, over and over and over again.

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

What I am is an adult woman with agency and the tools to make choices. Feel free to, you know, treat me accordingly.

Some nights, when he’s walking past her door, he has to whisper to himself: “Keep going.

Of all the good things I’ve felt in my fucking life, you are the best.

You think, but you don’t know. You don’t know anything about what it’s like to find your other half, I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.

Honey,” I ask, lowering my sunglasses to the tip of my nose, “are we rich?

She makes him want to draw again.

We all want to think that we’re important to the people who are important to us. But sometimes, our best friend is someone else’s best friend.

That was a badass speech, Misery.” “Badass is my middle name.” “Your middle name is Lyn.” Shit. “Stop reading my file.

Her presence soothes him more than a full-moon run.

Other people’s approval is a powerful drug. Lucky me, I never got the chance to develop an addiction

We haven’t even been married for twenty-four hours. Praying mantises have longer honeymoon periods.

And I don’t know you enough to make a judgment. Your jeans are cool, though.

I have no friends, no hobbies, and no real purpose aside from earning enough money to pay rent in order to … exist, I guess.

You should punish her.” I snort out a laugh. “Yes, Lowe. Spank me and take away my TV privileges.

Maybe there is something devastating about the incompleteness of it. But maybe, just knowing that the other person is there . . .” His throat bobs. “There might be pleasure in that, too. The satisfaction of knowing that something beautiful exists.” His lips open and close a few times, as though he can only find the right words by shaping them first to himself. “Maybe some things transcend reciprocity. Maybe not everything is about having.

Maybe some things transcend reciprocity. Maybe not everything is about having.

Of all the good things.” He grasps my hips as I roll them into his. “Of all the good things I’ve felt in my fucking life, you are the best.

This sounds foreign, like picking words at random. Magnetic fridge poetry

Am I? Under your protection?” “You’re my wife.

The scent is growing into more than just a problem. It invades. It swirls. It travels. It sticks to his nose. It concentrates, sometimes. They rarely touch. When they did, her wrist accidentally brushed against the front of his shirt, and he found himself tearing off the piece of fabric where her smell was most intense. He slipped it in his pocket, and now carries it everywhere. Even as he leaves to avoid her.

He makes the phone hand gesture, the one old people use.

You know what makes Alphas good leaders?” he asks without looking up. “No clue.” He huffs out a laugh. “Neither do I. But at times, there are decisions that feel right, deep in the marrow of my bones.” He wets his lips. “You are one of them.

Lowe. My friend. My spouse. You’re clearly a competent Were with many talents, but I’ve seen your phone. I’ve seen you use your phone. Half of your gallery is blurry pictures of Ana with your finger blocking the camera. You type ‘Google’ in the Google bar to start a new search.

Above all, I won’t take her freedom. Not when so many others have already done so.

That there is no world, no scenario, no reality in which I'll gracefully allow you to leave me. That if I don't let you go now, five years, five months, five days down the line, I won't be able to. Every second, I want you too much, and every second, I'm on the verge of wanting you more. Every second is my last chance to do the decent thing. To let you live your life without taking up all of it-

If they murder me, avenge me,” Serena whispers. It’s nice, all this faith she seems to have in me. “Any preferences on how?” “Be creative.

Yes, Lowe. Spank me and take away my TV privileges.

Miresy is so so soooo pretty. I loooove her ears.” He presses his lips together before resuming his reading.

No, but . . . what will she eat?” “I guess I’ll have to find another source of blood. Hmm, who could it be? Let’s see . . .” I drum my fingers against the edge of the table to create suspense. It sure works on Ana, who’s looking at me gape-mouthed. “Who smells good around—” Lowe’s hand closes around mine. Our wedding bands clink together as he lifts it from the table and sets it in my lap, his grip lingering for a second. I feel hot. I shiver. Lowe clicks his tongue. “Stop playing with your food, wife,” he murmurs,

She’s not like he imagined. She’s more, in every possible way.

My beautiful mate. Taking it so well.

Please, don’t leave. I’m sure you came here to . . . What do you do here, anyway? Scratch your claws? Howl at the moon?” “Deflea myself.” “See? I wouldn’t want to be in your way. Do go on.

God, you’re just so fluffy. And . . . sorry, but you’re kinda cute. I know you could murder me in less time than it takes to stick a straw in a blood bag. But you’re soft. And your coat is not even sparkly pink. I don’t know what you were embarrassed about, you majestic fluffball—yes, fine, I’m going.

You need to be told the right things.” He shrugs casually, but the movement feels the opposite of casual. “That you’re intelligent, and incredibly skilled at what you do, and brave. That despite your weird belief that you’re heartless, you’re more genuinely caring than anyone I’ve ever met. That you’re so resilient, I can’t quite wrap my head around it. That you’re very . . .” He pauses. Wets his lips. My heartbeat skips. “Very beautiful to look at. Always so beautiful. And that—

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.

You need to be told the right things. That you're intelligent, and incredibly skilled at what you do, and brave.

Well, he’s my favorite Were.” I hug my knees. “He’s always so nice to me.” “That’s because he has a weakness for beautiful women.

I follow her progress, terrified, wondering if this is motherhood: anxiously picturing your child with her skull cracked open.

I was trying to check my email.” I swallow. “Get in touch with friends.” “You don’t have friends, Misery.

could fuck you very nicely right now,” he says into my ear. He sounds honest, and a bit resigned. “I almost did.

I can relate, since I grew up fairly sure that if I misbehaved, a Were would crawl up the toilet to eat my ass.

He and Father are the masterminds of this marriage. I am the masterminded.

She stares at me with a mix of worry and hostility, like my kink is burning crickets with kerosene.

I don’t know what it is about me that says Please make yourself at home on my lap, but I’ll have to fix that.

You,” he says, voice deep, almost too low to hear. “How the fuck do you smell like this?

The timbre of his voice is rough and low. “You smell like you just came.” I stare back, speechless at his directness. I did just come. “And I need to eat you out.” He needs to. “Okay?

I exhale and set aside my book. It’s about a nosy elderly Were lady who solves murder mysteries in the Northeast pack. I absolutely loathe her, but somehow I’m already at number seven in the series.

and you’re kind of a catch. I used to vet all of Serena’s dating app matches; I’ve seen what’s out there. The pool is shallow.

Other people’s approval is a powerful drug.

Now that I think about it, this place hasn’t been cold in days.

Do as I fucking tell you, Misery.

Koen is an asshole, in the most delicious and entertaining of ways. He seems to have distinct preferences, strong opinions, and little interest in keeping either to himself.

Is she okay?” he asks. “Yes. I am the victim here,” I hiss, pointing at the mess on my head. His eyes travel over the braids, abruptly stopping on the visible tips of my ears.

Sorry. Sorry. Please don’t— I’m sorry.” Max starts sobbing. Lowe turns to me. “Do you accept?" "Accept . . . the spit?” “His apology.” “Oh.

He didn’t think he could love her more, but she is a constant surprise.

No creía que pudiera quererla más, pero ella nunca deja de sorprenderlo.

Betrayal is born of weakness,

beaded with water, and he kisses the drops out of my eyes. “I was scared.” It comes out like a confession. “You went limp in my arms, and I was so fucking scared.

Hope you packed a lint roller. I hear they shed.

And then immediately crouches down again, just to kiss my forehead.

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.

This is— God, this is funny. And mental. “No amount of legal tender would convince me to— Is it ten billion dollars?” “No.” “Well, no lower amount of legal tender would convince me to marry a Were.

Lowe clicks his tongue. “Stop playing with your food, wife,” he murmurs, and it feels almost intimate, smiling at him and catching the amused gleam in his eyes while Alex crumples into himself. “She has several bags left,” he informs Alex, who’s trying to camouflage with the wallpaper.

Something wet lands on the front of my tank top. Because Max spit on me. “Ew.” I gasp, disgusted, but before I can—I don’t know, spit back?—Lowe’s hand presses against Max’s chest and pins him to the couch. “What the fuck did you just do?” he grunts. “She’s a Vampyre!” “She’s my—” Lowe’s hand jerks up to clutch Max’s jaw. “Apologize to my wife.

Ana has been visiting,” I say, matching his tone. “She keeps me company, and even though she’s terrible at pronouncing my name and clearly doesn’t know whether she’s six or seven . . .” I swallow. “I’d rather she doesn’t get, you know. Kidnapped and trafficked.

Not quite the stuff of childhood dreams. Then again, I’m no dreamer.

My husband, I discover, wears size fourteen shoes.

Because we’re all bad bitches—till a scowling Were stands outside the bathroom door while we’re washing our hair.

He needs to be inside my space, towering over me.

betrayal is born of weakness

It hurt less, feeling alone among people who were never supposed to be my own.

I know you don’t like my scent.” “I fucking love your scent.

And then starts spreading peanut butter on the bread, like he’s settled an important matter and now needs a snack.

I need you to behave, Misery.

spider monkey?

He is very dangerous. Do not cross him.” What every girl wants to hear ten feet from the altar, especially when the hard line of her groom’s shoulders already looks cross.

Can I play with you?” She eyes my laptop eagerly. “No.” Her pretty mouth curves into a pout. “Why?” “Because.” What are we even going to do? Long division?

Misery Lark? No need to be careful. She’s not particularly dangerous, so feel free to cross her. What is she gonna do? Chuck her lint roller at you?

We could be at war with Eurasia and on the verge of cloning unicorns, and I’d have no clue. I’ve been busy. Searching. Scouring.

He cages me, pins me, and stares down at me like he forgot where he is and I’m something to be consumed. Like I’m prey.

He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.

I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.

We fit. The biological compatibility Lowe told me about, the one between mates . . . I don’t presume to know what that would be like. All I know is that we feel pretty fucking— “Perfect,

The birth control shot I was given before coming here was a joke, not just because Lowe and I are as likely to have sex as we are to start a podcast together, but also because he’s a Were and I a Vampyre, and we couldn’t reproduce even if we wanted to. Interspecies relationships are unheard of—if not unseen,

His arm snatches abruptly around my waist, and he pulls me closer to avoid another couple. My front plasters against him, his scorching heat a shock to my cool skin. He really is foreign. Different. Incompatible with me in every possible way.

Owen and I had walked into the library to find Father latched onto the neck of Councilwoman Selamio. Owen, who’d been more precocious and less of a social pariah, had covered my eyes with his hand and insisted that the trauma would stunt our growth.

Maybe you had friends, a girlfriend, a favorite takeout place. Maybe you used to sleep in in the morning, or take long weekend trips to travel around Europe and check out... buildings, or something. Maybe you had dreams. Did you go back to retrieve those?

He sets the crusts aside and leans his palms on the table once more, leveling with me. “I asked. They’re not involved, and they haven’t told anyone.” “Okay, yes, but. There is this thing people sometimes do, which you guys may not have a term for. The Vampyres call it lying.

Ella no es como él se imaginaba. No es que de niño hubiera fantaseado sobre cómo sería, pero había algo que habitaba los confines de su mente que jamás lo abandonaba, una ligera esperanza de que tal vez, un día... Ella no es como él se imaginaba. Es más, en todos los aspectos.

It was pure bliss—until Serena’s damn fucking cat came into the picture. I tried my best to dissuade her from adopting it. She tried her best to pretend she didn’t hear me. Then, about three days after taking home thirteen pounds of asshole from the shelter, she vanished into the ether.

And how many people have you killed?” “Zero,” I told her, appalled. “How many people have you killed?” “Hey, I’m Human.” “Humans kill all the time.” “Yeah, but indirectly. By making health insurance too expensive or stubbornly opposing gun control. You guys suck people dry to survive?

Misery Lark? No need to be careful. She’s not particularly dangerous, so feel free to cross her. What is she gonna do? Chuck her lint roller at you? I snort out a soft laugh, and that’s a mistake. Because my future husband hears it, and finally turns to me. My stomach drops. My step falters. The murmurs quiet.

Ah. Lowe doesn’t sleep. At all.” “Never? Is it a Were thing? An Alpha thing?” She shakes her head. “He has pneumonia.

I’m thinking about this—about him—way too hard. I shut the sketch pad too forcefully and place it back where I found it. It causes something that was at the very end of the notebook to slip out. A portrait. My heart halts as I scramble to lift it up, expecting—no, sure— that I’ll find Serena’s smiling face on it. The pouty lips, upturned eyes, narrow nose, and pointed chin; they’re all so familiar to me that I think it must be her, because who else’s face would I know so well? It can only be Serena’s, or . . . Mine. Lowe Moreland has drawn my face, and then stuffed it at the bottom of his bottom drawer. I’m not sure when he observed it long enough to pluck this level of detail out of me, the serious, detached air, the tight-lipped expression, the wispy hair curling around the cusp of an ear. Here’s what I do know: there is something sharp about the drawing. Something searing and intense and expansive that’s simply not there in the other sketches. Force, and power, and lots of feelings were involved in the making of this portrait. Lots.

-Vamos tentar, então. Afinal, não é assim que é uma relação? Conhecer alguém e querer estar com essa pessoa mais do que com qualquer outra, e tentar fazê-la funcionar. E eu... talvez não tenha o hardware, mas o software está aqui, e consigo programá-lo. Se calhar, não estás destinado a mim da mesma forma que estou destinada a ti, mas vou escolher-te de qualquer maneira, uma e outra vez. Não preciso de uma licença genética especial para ter a certeza de que és o meu…

It’s the most fun I’ve had with someone who’s not Serena. Even more, at times. Although that might be due to the way I find him glancing at me between bouts of perusing stained glass lamps, and the fact that he silently hands me his sweater when I shiver in the AC of the store, and how when we’re alone in the car he steals a kiss that has me forgetting how to breathe, his tongue soft across my fangs until I taste a drop of blood, and then he is the one groaning, pressing his hand around my waist, telling me that he cannot wait to be home.

What can I say about my first real relationship, the one I had with Raylan Thompson? That he was charming, and easy on the eyes... a brave military man like my father. However, if I was being honest with myself, he wasn’t my Pierre Curie or Frederic Joliot. I never felt the way the songs say you’re supposed to feel if you love someone. Sure, I really liked him, but I always knew I could live without him. Our relationship was unstable, like radioactive decay, or boron- 7—a substance that didn’t last, as though it had never been there at all.