Page 29 of Mate

“We’re Weres, and they might welcome us with a machine gun?”

“It doesn’t sound too far-fetched.”

“Agreed. Hmm.”

From your mother , the note said. Koen thought it might be a prank, but my mother was from the area, so .

. . what if she’s still here? She’s Human, and unlikely to make it into Northwest territory undetected.

But maybe she has a Were friend who delivered it for her.

Could it be my father? Could he still be in the pack?

Unlikely, given how few members would be old enough. But still.

I blow my hair out of my eyes. Through the glass, I see Koen ambling back, breeze snaking through his dark fur. “I’m sorry, Juno, I need to go. Thank you for this.”

“Serena, may I tell Misery? I already know she’ll ask. She is very . . .”

“Nosy?”

“Yes. When it comes to you.”

“You can tell her anything, but if this information came to you through a computer, she’s likely to know already.”

“Ideal, as it would spare me an ethics-breaching conversation.”

I laugh, freshening up the coffee, and send a text:

I can’t help noticing that either you did not ask Lowe how a boy of fifteen managed to unify an entire pack, or you’re keeping the answer to yourself.

Misery: Lowe is in the south on pack business. I am but a lonely, neglected bride.

Serena : Don’t walk into the lake without first feeding Sparkles. How is my boy, by the way?

Misery : Last I checked his intestines were happy and productive. He may look like an overgrown hamster, but he sure shits like a lion.

Serena: Fantastic. Since your intellectual curiosity is clearly at its peak, can you find out something else for me?

Misery: Probably.

Serena: I need to know what specifically happened twenty-one years ago here in the Northwest. Weres died, especially older Weres. Humans were involved.

Misery: On it.

Misery: Although, and this might be too galaxy-brain an idea to have occurred to you despite your career as a journalist: you could ask questions? For instance, to the guy you live with? Who happens to have been an active participant in the events you just mentioned?

Serena: Everyone is being very cagey. This is obviously the Northwest’s big, formative trauma event, and they’re not over it. It’s like that thing you Vampyres always yap on about, with the blood and the wedding.

Misery: The Aster?

Serena: Yup. Except this happened years, not centuries ago, and I’m pretty sure that everyone’s genealogy tree died in it. It seems more tactful to seek alternative sources.

Misery: You soft hearted bitch. I could never.

Serena: Uh- huh. Where’s Ana, by the way? Snuggling on top of you? Yawning in your face? Drooling all over your pillow?

Misery: Absolutely NONE of the above.

Misery: But if she were, she’d tell me to say hi to Aunt Serena and to ask her when she’s coming back for more zip-lining.

Serena: Is she asking for your phone to play Tetris?

Misery: No comment. Goodbye.

I pour some coffee in a mug and set it aside for Koen. I’m gathering the seconds’ used but surprisingly clean plates when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch something in the hallway.

It’s a yellow flannel. The flannel I stole from Koen and slept in last night. The one I sweated through. The one I thought I’d put in the washing machine with the sheets.

“Shit,” I mutter, hurrying to pick it up. Unfortunately, at the exact same moment, the door opens.

Koen enters the cabin in human form, finishing pulling up a pair of jeans, the worn denim soft around his hips.

He doesn’t bother buttoning them up all the way, and .

. . I don’t know. I guess I could rapidly avert my eyes and maybe even flush.

But in a place where no one seems to care about nudity, I’m the one making it weird.

Plus, I’m busy hiding the flannel behind my back. Which seems to accomplish very little, given the way Koen’s nostrils flare. I’m suddenly seized by terror: Can he smell the remnants of my sweatfest?

Clearly, yes. Because he goes rigid as a statue and asks, “What is it?” The words sound a bit like a growl, as though they’re coming from deep within his body.

“Nothing.” I swallow. Smile to soften the lie. “Just, my pj’s. I need to wash them.”

His eyes darken. Panic prickles up my spine.

“I’ll be right back. Give me a sec,” I plead, turning around and starting down the hallway as fast as I can.

“Serena.” His voice is so harsh, my entire body clenches.

I freeze in place. After a long moment, turn around. “W- what?”

“Don’t run.”

I swallow thickly. “I . . . Why?”

“Walk slowly to the washing machine and get rid of the clothes.” His voice pins me to the ground. Something builds in my belly. “Do not make me chase after you.”

I have no idea why he’s asking that from me, but I do as he commands: calmly make my way down the hallway until I’m in the mudroom, watching the flannel sink into a pool of soapy water.

I take a deep breath before heading back, but when I return, Koen is right where I left him, clearly unwilling or unable to move.

Neither of us mentions the exchange that just occurred— a silent, shared agreement to pretend that nothing happened. Instead, I grab the coffee from the counter and hand it to him until he accepts it with a muted grunt. His eyes don’t leave mine until he tips his head back to drink.

I can’t help staring at the bob of his Adam’s apple through his unshaven neck. The breadth of his body, muscles working under scarred, imperfect skin. The thick outline of him. His shoulders and back strain when he sees me watching; they don’t relax even as I smile.

It’s focus stealing, the way he looks. But most Weres are built this way, and the reason I can’t tear my eyes away from this one has more to do with the fact that . . .

He’s Koen .

He manages entire conversations in low growls.

He can tell that I’m about to make fun of him before I’ve even formulated the joke in my head.

He disturbs the space that surrounds him, and mine with it.

And his eyes are always searching mine, shaping me, trying to make sure I’m okay, and never asking anything of me.

I remember the disjointed, vague images I keep seeing in my dreams. Feel the same liquid, low-pooling heat. Wonder how many fucking civil, criminal, moral, maritime laws I would break if I were to go and wrap my arms around him. Maybe say, Your tits are pretty spectacular, too .

“What?” he asks when I snort out a laugh, and I shake my head.

“How many packmates have you slaughtered on this fine morning?”

He mutters something about “whiny little shits,” and I try not to laugh.

“I made French toast. Want some?”

“I’m good.”

He didn’t eat any of the food I made last night, either. It stings, and I don’t know why.

“Where did Amanda go?” he asks.

“Just left. Sorry you missed her.”

“I’m not. I’m packmated out for the day.”

“It’s eight thirty in the morning, Koen.”

Your point? his look clearly asks. “Go get dressed,” he orders. “We’re going somewhere.”

I take a deep breath. Think about all the cruel little things he told me to push me away.

About the big thing he neglected to tell me, the one that best explains the distance he’s been keeping.

“Actually, we’re not. We’re staying in for a bit.

And.” I glance at his shoulders. His biceps.

The V of his stomach. “For what I have in mind, it’s better if you don’t get dressed. ”