Page 22 of Mate

Look at her. Just— look at her.

O NCE AGAIN, I SHOW A SHAMEFUL LACK OF RESTRAINT AT THE way the coast unfolds before my eyes.

I take in the rugged shorelines, gasp dramatically, and say “Oh my God” about fifteen times, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the passenger window to get a better view.

Everywhere my eyes land is blue and green, dense and jagged, beachy, woodsy.

When Koen catches me craning my neck backward to study a sea stack, the car slows down for me to admire the view.

Or maybe there’s a speed limit, who knows?

This place is so peaceful. So mysterious and nostalgic.

The vegetation is not unlike the forest around my old cabin, but that was inland.

The ocean makes it even more breathtaking.

In my previous life I longed to travel, but that required money, and I tended to use what little I had on other luxuries.

Eating, for instance. Not sleeping on park benches.

Paying taxes that financed my very own surveillance. How very full circle of me.

“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” I declare, and Koen’s self-congratulatory smile has me shaking my head with laughter. “You know you have no reason to look so smug, right? It’s not your coast.”

“It is my territory.”

“Sure, but it’s not like you built that offshore rock formation over there.”

“As far as you know. And you might want to stop contradicting me in the heart of my region, where my every word is law.”

“All I’m saying is, you can’t take credit for it.”

He gives me a flat look. “I can tie you to an anvil and throw you from that cliff, though. And no one will ever know.”

I chuckle, wondering how many of these threats he follows through with.

“It’s not the huge compliment you’re making it out to be.

” I lean into the back seat to pilfer Koen’s zip- up hoodie.

He doesn’t need it, because he has furnace genes.

I’ll repossess it. Use it as a blanket. “I’ve only ever been in the Southwest. We’re working out of a pool of two. ”

“At least you like mine better than Lowe’s.”

“We’re still talking about the landscapes, right?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I laugh again, and we roll into a place that looks like the quaint seaside towns I sometimes see in movies, the ones where fiscally conservative people go for weekends of antiquing, dinner parties, and discreet cheating on their spouses. “Where are we?”

“A bit outside the Den. A friend of mine owns a store here.”

“Look at you guys. Having stores.”

He pulls the hand brake. “And indoor plumbing. And statistics.”

“And sarcasm?”

“You catch up quickly. Come on.”

There’s a decent amount of foot traffic: shoppers, children playing on swings, and, of course, several Weres in wolf form.

They lounge under trees, perch on branches, lie next to the statue of a book in front of a local library.

They acknowledge their Alpha and then study me with a sleepy, lazy sort of curiosity.

“Hi.” I wave my hand in the direction of a group huddling in a nearby pocket park. They blink in response. I instinctively recognize it as a friendly greeting.

I guess standing next to their Alpha goes a long way.

“Should I go introduce myself?” I whisper at Koen. “Is that part of the hybrid parade?”

He snorts. His palm finds the middle of my back and pushes me toward a sidewalk.

“Wouldn’t it be the polite thing to do?” I truly don’t know. When I was with the Southwest, I didn’t exactly socialize. I holed myself up in Misery’s house, let Ana braid and unbraid my hair upwards of forty times a day, and retreated into my room whenever someone new would visit.

“Killer, you’re proof of concept that Humans and Weres can fuck— fruitfully so.

Not only are you the most recognizable face on the continent, but there’ll be a photo of you in every time capsule shot into space for the coming century.

You’re good without introductions for the next couple of years.

” He opens a door and signals for me to go ahead. “Come on. Let’s get you some clothes.”

I do need them, considering the rate at which I’m stealing his. But. “Do you know how I can access my bank?”

His hand slides up, between my shoulder blades, and guides me inside. He doesn’t reply.

“I do have some money,” I insist.

“You do? No need to flex, Serena.”

“I mean, I just need to— ”

“This conversation is very tedious.” He sounds distracted as he glances around.

“Well, prepare to be tedioused even more. You’re not going to pay for my stuff. It’s infantilizing.”

His dark eyes travel down my body. Slowly. “As if I could ever do that ,” he drawls.

My cheeks burst into flames. The rest of me, too. His gaze doesn’t let go of me. I’m about to blurt out something supremely stupid, when: “Koen, you’re early! A first.”

Our heads whip around as the most elegant man to ever walk this wretched globe emerges from the back.

I admire his wing tips, the perfect tan of his skin, the bounce of his gravity-defying tawny forelock.

I used to be handy with a can of hair spray, back when I had a job that required personal hygiene, but boy, do I have a lot to learn from this dude.

The two men exchange one of those almost-hug handshakes. “Serena, this is Carter. Carter, Serena, who we won’t bother pretending requires introductions, needs something to wear that fits her.”

“Does she?” He gives me the once-over. Purses his chiseled mouth. “She seems to like your flannel.”

Koen’s grunt is unintelligible. I attempt a smile, but it comes out tense— which he notices. “You’re not afraid, are you.”

It’s not really a question, and I decide to be truthful. “Just intimidated by how sophisticated Carter looks.” It doesn’t help that my pants are Koen’s sweats rolled up about five times, giving me an exquisite toddler wearing life buoy at the pool je ne sais quoi.

“You can handle it,” Koen says. His hand slides under the collar of my flannel, between the layers of fabric that rest on my neck.

All heat, no skin- to- skin contact. He squeezes me with something that could be reassurance, or a threat of strangulation.

“Since you’ve had so much exposure to my good looks. ”

Carter and I burst out laughing, then stop when we notice Koen’s narrow-eyed stare.

“Absolutely,” Carter says, recovering faster.

“It’s a valid narrative choice. The scruff, I mean.

” He scans Koen like he’s a vision board.

“The story I’m picking up is that you are resourceful enough to survive forty days and forty nights in the desert by sucking the moisture out of a prickly pear.

If it isn’t what you’re going for— only if it isn’t, may I recommend a haircut and a shave? ”

“Don’t criticize my looks. It hurts my feelings.”

“Your what?” I ask.

Koen gives me a deadpan look.

“We just want what’s best for you,” I explain.

Carter nods. “And what’s best for us . The Alpha is the face of the pack. And right now, we’re looking pretty . . .”

“Disheveled,” I finish.

“We are wolves,” Koen retorts. “We eat our prey alive. We shove our noses up each other’s junk. We roll in shit to mask our scents.”

“Point taken,” Carter concedes. “Although some would argue that no wolf has ever stooped so low as to walk around with an unkempt and obviously unpremeditated topknot— ”

“Carter,” Koen growls. “Get Serena something to put on right now, or I’ll topknot your intestines.”

“On it, Alpha.” Carter bends his head, once, deep, and escorts me to the back of the store. “Koen said you need a bit of everything?”

It’s not quite true, since I have no plans to venture away from the cabin or to interact with anyone who’d judge me for spending my life in a bathrobe.

“I don’t foresee many cocktail parties in my near future, and I don’t know that this is the best time for me to take up scuba diving. Just the basics?”

“Perfect.”

So, jeans. Sweats. Thermal shirts, sweaters, a heavy jacket.

Carter’s store is great, and I don’t want to impose any more than I already am, so I agree to whatever he has me trying on, even though my skin has been very sensitive for weeks, and the denim and wool scrape against it like emery boards.

The texture of fleece makes me wish there were enough traffic for me to walk into.

A normal evolution of your condition , said Dr. Henshaw.

Make sure you dress to minimize your sensory issues.

I used to be fastidious about my appearance.

I spent a huge chunk of my first few paychecks on building a wardrobe, and I miss it— the professional grays and beiges, blue hues, strategic little splashes of color.

My power blouses, Misery called them. Power slacks, power blazers, power turtlenecks.

That’s exactly what they were: me, asserting the little power I had scrounged for myself.

After years of hand- me- downs and uniforms that never fit my ever-changing teenage body, I used to take a lot of pride in looking the way I chose.

Learning how to dress, how to style my hair, how to do makeup felt like a radical act of agency.

Joyful and fun . Liberating. Finding myself.

But the sallow, emaciated girl blinking at me in the changing room mirror is no one at all. Her dark hair hangs limply from a middle part, far too long. Her collarbones are sharper than knives. Her identity has been peeled off layer by layer.

“Everything okay?” Carter asks from beyond the curtain. “Does the jacket look nice?”

It looks like shit, because I look like shit. I guess I saw myself as the kind of person who’d hold on to her dignity in the face of great hardship. Apparently, I’m just a damn slob— and the thought has me snorting out laughter. “Great. Love it!”