Page 14 of Mate

She calls him out of the blue. He hasn’t saved her number, but it’s etched into the hidden layers of his skin. “I need a favor.”

“A favor. And am I— ” He stops and briefly covers the phone’s mic with his palm to tell Jorma that yes, he did sign whatever the hell was on his desk this morning. “Am I your favor guy, now?”

“Um. Do you want to be?”

“No. I don’t like doing nice things for people.”

Her low laugh makes his body do things . “The thing is . . . when Ana was being targeted, Lowe said you hid her.”

“I did.”

She wets her lips. He can hear it. “He said that the Northwest is the best place to disappear.”

A pause. “Is anyone after you?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s more like . . . I really need a break.”

Two months earlier Southwest territory

K INDA DISAPPOINTING, HOW LITTLE DIFFERENCE THERE IS BETWEEN Human and Were physicians’ offices.

I probably should have known. When I asked Lowe if the Southwest had a, um, holistic healer I could see, or something , he looked at me with his resting I must have drop- kicked a lot of puppies in my past life to deserve this face, and said, We do. We call them doctors. They have degrees and such.

Clearly, I’m the problem here. The first time Misery brought me into Vampyre territory, I expected capes with standing collars, scarlet velvet, a menagerie of aloof Mexican free-tailed bats.

Instead, I found commercial buildings and suit-wearing finance bros who crowded the elevators and screamed into their phones as though their lives depended on cryptocurrency.

Even Owen, Misery’s twin, was less like a demonic scion of darkness and more of a lost, indolent fuckboy with daddy issues.

Then again, my impression of him might be influenced by the fact that he hit on me relentlessly, from the moment I entered the Nest till the second I stepped out. I never told Misery, and I’ll bring this to my shallow grave.

Very soon, apparently.

Dr. Henshaw’s office, tragically, is a new addition in a long line of unmet expectations.

The plaque on the door followed by a whole-ass MD?

The lack of evolution vector concept art in which an Australopithecus transitions to Human and then to wolf?

Zero terrifying forceps? Disinfectant wipes that smell exactly like the ones I used for my apartment?

As I said: disappointing. The setting and the news.

“Serena,” he calls. He is a kindly older man, good at his job. My issues stump him and challenge his self-perception, which accounts for half of the urgency in his tone. The other half . . . It cannot be easy, delivering the kind of information he just did.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault,” I say, hopping off the exam table with a smile.

I stuff my top back into my jeans. The weirdest part about this is that, as far as my days go, I was having a great one. Today I haven’t puked. Haven’t passed out. Haven’t felt like all my mucous tissues were drenched in muriatic acid. Is it my fucking birthday, or what? I wondered on my way here.

Spoiler alert: it’s not. “Please don’t feel bad about this,” I reassure him. “It’s totally okay.”

“Serena, I’m not . . .” He pauses to stroke his thick gray beard. “Like I said, cortisol surge disorder is a very common illness for Weres, and a leading cause of death.”

“But it’s very unusual for a Were as young as me to have CSD, I’m not responding to treatment, and my condition is deteriorating faster than you’ve ever seen before.” I smile to show him that yes, I’ve been listening.

When I first came to Dr. Henshaw, my biggest fear was that he would tell me that my odd hybrid biology was too much of a medical head-scratcher to give me a diagnosis. It never occurred to me that my disease might be easy to identify but untreatable.

To his credit, Dr. Henshaw did everything he could. He consulted several of his colleagues. He shared my anonymized labs with specialists. He compared notes, asked for advice, and ordered additional tests on their behalf.

And today . . . Well. Today.

“Even if I am not able to do much for you, there are still accommodations to be made. You’ll need palliative care to treat your symptoms. We can and should involve your family and your closest friends, like Lowe and the Vampyre, and give them as much time with you as possible.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I feel— no, I am calm.

Not that I’ve ever been one for dramatics, despite Misery’s accusations that I’m “severely unstable” for crying over videos of dogs reuniting with their owners.

The ease with which I’m digesting the news that I’m about to become maggot feed is almost more disquieting than the knowledge itself. “I’d rather not tell anyone.”

His eyes widen. “Lowe is my Alpha. I feel uncomfortable, withholding information that— ”

“I’m sorry about your discomfort,” I interrupt. Gentle and firm. “But before I walked into this room for the first time, I made sure that you were not mandated to report your findings to Lowe, and you said— ”

“Only if they threatened the safety of the pack.” The eleven between his brows deepens, like he’s looking for a loophole.

“Serena, nearly all people with CSD display aggressive episodes as their disease progresses. You’ve already experienced blackouts and sleepwalking.

The other day, you said you clawed into the headboard of your bed overnight— ”

“I promise, I don’t need the recap.” I attempt an amused smile to soften my words.

We were both here for the last two months, trying pills, injectables, even minor surgery.

But I steadily got worse, and Dr. Henshaw’s even-keeled We just haven’t found the right treatment yet became a frustrated You’re not responding as well as I’d hoped , then unspooled into frowns that I interpreted as What the fuck is wrong with your body?

Then, today, he said somberly, My colleagues and I are in agreement that your body cannot sustain this level of adrenal imbalance for much longer. It’s simply not compatible with life, both from a Were and a Human physiology standpoint. And the rate of your decline . . .

It’s okay. We tried. Didn’t work out. But that’s life: you win some, and you lose some— in which case, it becomes death.

“How long?” I ask him.

He doesn’t waffle. “Three to six months.”

Okay. That’s fine. That’s . . . I can work with that.

“I cannot thank you enough,” I say sincerely.

Maybe, after I slog my way to greener pastures, this could be my legacy.

Gratitude. Wouldn’t it be nice to be remembered as the hybrid who didn’t ask to see the manager when things didn’t go her way?

“You’ve done so much for me. I would write you a positive online review, but I’m not sure whether Attempted to fix a hybrid would get you killed, so. ”

“Serena. I strongly advise sharing what is happening with Lowe. If nothing else, because you could easily hurt someone during an episode. You live with Ana, too, who— ”

“I would never — ” I stop and force myself not to act defensively, because he’s not wrong.

If I shredded a piece of wood in my sleep without realizing it, what would stop me from shredding .

. . “You’re correct.” I go on my tiptoes to grab my jacket.

“The pack is at risk with me around. But there are ways to deal with it.”

“Such as?”

“I could ask for some isolation. Misery knows that I’ve been overwhelmed.”

“The Vampyre won’t like it.”

“She’s used to stuff not going her way. She’s a bitter pill swallower of great skill and experience.”

“Did she not agree to wed Lowe to find you ?” Dr. Henshaw tilts his head. “And you plan to leave her with a lie?”

“If I think it’d be best for her? Yes.” I’ve expended a lot of effort in the past few weeks to hide my condition from the people I live with. I have no intention to stop now. “Nice guilt trip, though.”

“It was worth a try.”

I grin at him, wondering when it will sink in that I’m about to die. The atoms that make me will be eaten by worms and turn into fungi and undergo redistribution within the universe. Why do I feel so little? “My medical records through the years, the ones I gave you. You still have them?”

He nods.

“After I . . . Feel free to make copies and share them with whoever you want— they’ll come in handy as Ana grows up and— ” My voice cracks.

For the past decade, I’ve refused to let my circumstances define me.

Fuck being an orphan, or poor, or the Collateral’s lady- in- waiting.

Fuck being a victim. Fuck navel-gazing and wallowing in my wretchedness.

And then I met Ana. Who’s an orphan and a hybrid. She’s every thing that I used to be. And the compassion I’ve never been able to extend to myself overflows whenever I think about her.

Whoever intends to hurt her will have to crawl over my cold, rotting corpse. Literally, perhaps.

“Mine is a Were illness and likely has nothing to do with me being hybrid,” I tell the doctor. “But my medical history might help, if Ana ever runs into issues, and— I did tell you that I’m happy to donate my body, right? Make sure you, um, dissect me, and all. To learn.”

“Serena.” Dr. Henshaw’s light eyes search mine. “You should not forgo palliative care.”

“If the pain gets too bad, I’ll come back to you.

But you know I’ve been surveilled my entire life, all because of my biology.

Something that happened before I was even born has dictated the last two decades of my life, and .

. . I think, if you try to wrap your head around it, you might be able to understand that I’d rather not spend the last months of my life being poked and prodded. I just want to be , for once.”

“Don’t you want to spend time with your sister?”

“Not if this illness turns me into a different person. Misery and I were alone for so long. A year or so ago, when I realized that something was wrong with me, I was terrified that if I disappeared, it would destroy her. And the thing is . . . it will, when it happens. But she has people that’ll help her pick up the pieces now.

” I smile. It’s heartfelt. “That’s the biggest gift I could ask for. ”

I wrap my hand around the door handle, ready to leave, when Dr. Henshaw asks, “What about the Northwest Alpha?”

A beat. “What about him?”

“Are you not his mate?”

I look at him over my shoulder. “He won’t care. It’s just— it’s only hormones. Sex.”

The doctor cocks his head. “I highly doubt that’s true.”

“Koen’s a grown man. I— ” I blink, feeling a burst of anger.

I cannot worry about Koen. I need to make sure that Misery and Ana are safe and taken care of, and .

. . Does Dr. Henshaw not get it? “He can handle wanting to fuck someone and being told no,” I say, voice acid with worry and something that feels too much like regret. “If he can’t, that’s his problem.”

I walk out, pretending not to hear Dr. Henshaw tell me that if that’s the impression I’m under, either I was lied to, or I’m lying to myself.