Page 23 of Mate

The process takes about twenty minutes. Koen stays out of the way, leaning back against the glass door like the world’s most obstructing bouncer, never taking his eyes off us.

He answers his phone a couple of times, has a few low-pitched conversations that could probably be marketed as “highly soothing white noise” and sold for eye-watering profit. I smile at him whenever our eyes meet.

He doesn’t respond.

“Koen,” Carter calls, tossing a plastic package at him. “Will you grab some more of this for her?” It’s underwear. Koen Alexander is choosing and paying for my panties. The situation is so ludicrous, I can’t quite bite back a hysterical chuckle.

Before we walk out with half a dozen bags, Carter whispers in my ear to please “do something about the facial hair situation,” and Koen flips him off without bothering to turn around.

In the car, though, I realize that we didn’t stop at the register.

“Hang on. Are you guys some kind of currency-less postcapitalist utopia?”

Koen blinks. “What?”

“You didn’t pay. Is it some kind of Alpha feudal right?”

His eyebrow lifts. “You think they don’t know where to send their bills?”

The next stop is the department store, where Weres obtain their food when they’re not in the mood for marmot kebabs. “Must be where the Northwest purchases unicorn waffles,” I muse, which earns me an ear flick.

This place is much more crowded. Most of the Weres in the parking area are in human form, getting out of cars with their families or loading groceries into their trunks. A couple walks by the edge of the lot, holding hands, fully naked despite the chilly breeze, and disappears past the trees.

“We’ll get you food. And other shit you need.”

“Such as?”

“If you think I’m going to giggle while saying feminine hygiene products, you don’t know about the number of young Were couples I’ve caught in compromising positions and subjected to the sex talk.”

I laugh. “No offense, but . . . there has to be someone better suited to that.”

“Fuck off,” he says mildly. “I’m great at explaining the dangers of parasitic STIs and the importance of mutual consent.”

Why can I picture that so well? “Shouldn’t you guys hire a professional?”

“There is one. Now. Back then, we didn’t have lots of people with degrees.”

“Yeah?” I look up at him. From this angle, I can’t see his eyes very well. “What changed? Did you get scholarship programs or something?”

He huffs, amused. “We just grew up, Serena.”

It’s a bit of an odd thing to say, and I want to dig deeper, but more Weres turn toward us. They wave at Koen. Smile at me. A small group introduce themselves, the warmth of their welcome undeniable. “I thought they’d hate me,” I say as we walk through the sliding doors.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Because I’m a freak? Because I’m putting the entire territory in danger? Because I’m taking up their Alpha’s time? Pick your poison.”

“Most people really do see you as a symbol of unity.” He fetches a cart. “And the ones who don’t know better than to say anything about it.” I remember the necklace. Koen’s near certainty that it was just a prank. Maybe it’s the only way for pack members to protest my presence?

“The Southwest has been pretty shitty to Misery. Still is.”

“Vampyres are more controversial than Humans, and the Southwest is a hotbed for conflict— three species practically living on top of each other? Fuck, no. Plus, Lowe’s only been in charge for a couple of years and inherited a pack from a neurotic nutjob whose decades-long power structure was built on fearmongering and misleading information.

It’ll take him a lot of work to undo that. ”

“What about you? Was your previous Alpha a nutjob?”

His jaw shifts, as though he’s biting the inside of his cheeks.

He eyes some fruit, pensive. “Our former Alpha made mistakes, but none came from a place of malice, like Roscoe’s.

We’ve had issues with some of the neighboring Human settlements, but we also owe them.

That part of our history speaks too loudly to be ignored. ”

“Well, that’s certainly very convenient for us half Humans.”

He picks up a bag of oranges. Takes a step toward me. “We live to serve.” For a moment I think he’ll— Is he going to hug me? But no. He’s just dropping the fruit in the cart. “Why’s your heart beating like that, killer?”

My stomach flips. I’m about to blurt out an excuse, but a young woman interrupts us.

“Alpha? Do you have a moment?” She’s holding the hand of a boy of eight or so, who stares at me open-mouthed.

When I wave at him, he hesitantly waves back, somewhere between starstruck and petrified.

Maybe I should offer him an autograph. Capitalize on this new fame while I still can.

Sell jerseys. Run for office. Sign partnership deals.

It’s nightmare fuel.

The rest of the shopping trip is marvelous.

It’s my first time walking around in public since before my abduction, and I can almost make-believe that my life hasn’t changed in every way.

I could be Serena Paris, journalist for The Herald .

This could be the store closest to my apartment.

The brands are different, the junk food selection is appallingly limited, and I cannot help giggling at the size of the fur-care section.

But overall, there is something delicious about discovering that Weres like goldfish crackers, too— except theirs are shaped after the phases of the moon.

The box says Lunar Bites , and I text Misery a picture. But are they peanut butter? is her response.

I buy ingredients for a few of the dishes I enjoy cooking, more out of habit than hunger.

A couple of people introduce themselves and shake my hand— nice, if unpleasant.

I read the back of a bone-health supplement jar.

Study the herbal teas. Feel the texture of every single blanket they have for sale.

Pick up a candle. Smell it— lavender, vetiver, a hint of vanilla.

Decide that I love the scent and inhale it again.

Put it back on the shelf. Investigate pillows I don’t need, find the softest, and rub my face against it.

It’s so mundane and wonderful and cozy, the banality of the supply chain.

The quiet thrill of BOGO sales. The rack of sparkly unicorn ears that Ana would totally squeal at.

Koen follows a few steps behind. I think he wants to be discreet, give me space, but I don’t need much in terms of feminine hygiene products, because I’ve never had a period.

I’m okay with using his shampoo— he smells really, really good— and he already gave me a spare toothbrush.

Moisturizer feels like a hassle. I used to be a sunscreen evangelist, and truly believe everybody should use it, but people like me (i.e.

, those who won’t live long enough to develop melanoma) are exempt.

“It was nice,” I tell Koen in the car.

“Grocery shopping?”

I nod, unsure how to explain that I haven’t felt this normal and grounded in forever.

“If this is a beloved pastime of yours, you may continue doing my grocery shopping. At no cost to you.”

“Cool. I’ll be in charge of buying your— ”

“Unicorn waffles. Look at you, holding on to jokes like your life depends on it.”

It’s what I’ve got , I think. I lean back against the headrest, roll my chin up to look at him. “Thank you for— ” I immediately start laughing when he begins to protest.

“I told you to— ”

“Come on.”

“— just dust the goddamn fixtures— ”

“Listen, just . . .” I rub my eyes. He immediately falls quiet. “Do you think the Vampyres know I’m here by now?”

“I’m certain.”

I tilt my head. “Are you ever not?”

“Not what?”

“Certain. Are you ever insecure?”

“Not really, no.”

“Is it an Alpha thing?”

He shrugs. No. I think it means It’s a me thing. You’re welcome . The conversation pulls a little laugh out of my mouth, even though it never even happened. What a florid internal life I have.

“Well,” I say, “here’s hoping that it’ll rub off.”

He shakes his head and reaches out to me. His rough, warm fingers push a few strands of hair behind my ears, and heat glows in my belly. Up my spine. Zaps at my brain, like a lightbulb turning on.

It’s an odd thing for Koen to do. It surprises him as much as it does me, I think, but he doesn’t pull back. It’s like the rest of the world has taken a break from existing. It’s just us.

“Actually,” I whisper. “I had an idea. To show the gratitude I cannot verbalize.”

“We already discussed it.” His voice is a low murmur, too. “Dusting.”

“The problem is, you do not own a duster. You barely own fixtures.”

“I’ll buy more useless shit. To keep you busy.”

“No, I was thinking, what about . . .” It’s my turn to reach out, and he’s obviously not used to this— to people, to me , initiating physical contact. Guess that’s what happens when you’re the predator at the apex. Not a lot of spontaneity and liberties taken.

But he doesn’t jerk back when I tug at a wisp of hair brushing against his neck. “What if I fix this mess? Give you a makeover.”

“A what, now?”

“You know. The issue we discussed with Carter. The one where you look like a medieval peasant who’s about to die of the whooping cough.

I’m a pro.” I might be coming undone. Or maybe some very dumb spirit has possessed me, because I let my wrist drag against the skin at the base of his throat, as if to .

. . as if to rub off on him? More , my instinct screams at me.

More . Make him smell like you. But Koen’s breathing speeds up, and he twists his head away after shuddering in something that could very well be revulsion.

I force my arm to retreat. Clear my throat.

“At the very least, I’m a very experienced amateur. Misery had a mullet phase.”

“Uh- huh.” He sounds raspy. “Was that before or after she scrambled your brain?”

“During, probably.” When did he start the car? It’s hard to think in here. My brain feels fuzzy. “Anyway, I can do you, too.”

He winces. Runs a hand down his face. “Do you even fucking hear yourself?”

“And I can shave you! I mean, I used to shave my legs, back when I made an effort to look presentable. All the time. Well, not all the time, just before dates, but I’ve never nicked an artery. That I know of.”

“Reassuring,” he grumbles, putting down the window. Fresh air blows inside the car, and we both take deep breaths. I feel instantly more clearheaded.

“Please. Let me make you pretty.”

“I’m already pretty. I’m fucking stupendous .”

I sigh. “Oh, if only you could use suppositories to— ”

“To cure my malignant narcissism?”

How does he always know? “Listen— I just want to make you presentable. You said that you don’t have time to go get a haircut, but I’m already in your house, and you’re my live- in nanny. Think of the ease .”

“Has anyone told you that you’re kind of a nuisance, killer?”

“A guy. Once or ten times.” I grin. “But I could be so much worse.”

“I’ll take it as a threat.” The car stops.

Somehow, we’re back at his cabin. Excellent awareness of your surroundings, Serena.

“I have to go meet someone,” he tells me, taking the bags inside.

The only thing left for me to carry is Ana’s unicorn headband, which is already shedding glitter around Koen’s trichromatic home.

“Who?”

“A friend. It’s about your necklace.”

“Ah. Have you discovered who dropped it off?”

“I have not, which is a problem in and of itself.”

“So it’s not . . . The mother thing . . . ?”

He sighs. “I don’t know yet. I’ll be back in a few hours. If anything weird happens, anything , call my phone. And yell. Amanda is watching the northeast, and Colin the southwest.”

“What about attacks from above?” I tease. There are no chairs in the kitchen, so I try to lift myself onto the counter, but it’s too tall. “No werestork second on air patrol?”

“If a bald eagle dove in from the sky to abduct you, my life would be so much easier.” His hands close around my waist. Lift me up like I’m a feather.

“And fine— I’ll get more goddamn furniture.

” He lingers for a fraction of a second, his nose hovering by my temple, and I hear a deep inhale.

A slower exhale. A gust of warmth against my heated skin.

My forehead wants, demands, clamors to lean forward and kiss Koen’s collarbone.

I manage to hold it back long enough for him to step away, and for the possibility to be removed.

Safer this way.

Remember? How he said that he didn’t care about you? When he called you a spoiled little girl? It was less than twenty-four hours ago. He’s not nice.

“I’ll get everything ready, then,” I yell after him as he saunters off. “For our little spa session.” He flips me off without glancing back. And it’s not until later, when I’m unpacking the bags and going through what we bought, that I find three important things.

The first makes me blush and roll my eyes and wish that I had a shovel to bury myself in Koen’s garden: every single pair of underwear he selected for me is red. Bright red. Dull red. Wine red. Blood red.

All.

Kinds.

Of.

Red.

I’m not equipped to process it, so I focus on the second , which makes me smile.

At first, I think he may have replaced the plushie I mentioned.

Then I realize that the little pink penguin in the bag is hard, made of plastic.

A few seconds of fiddling with it tells me that it’s a pocketknife with a foldable blade.

It’s cute— and thoughtful, especially considering that I no longer have claws at my disposal. It has a different, deeper kind of heat spreading through me, and I don’t want to overthink it, so I shift my attention to the third thing.

And I stop breathing.

Because every single thing I glanced at, grazed, examined, eyed, or even considered when we were at the grocery store, every single thing I decided to walk past, every single thing I told myself I didn’t need— every single thing has somehow made it here, inside Koen’s house.