Page 35 of Mate

No.

I WAKE UP TO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PIANO MUSIC I’VE EVER heard.

Not that it means much, given my pathological inability to listen to anything without a techno beat, but this .

. . it’s spectacular . Vaguely familiar.

Probably classical. Elegant but intimate.

Being awakened by any sort of loud noise is down there with eating paint chips in my list of favorite things, but this is so gentle and understated, I want to make it my forever alarm.

My eyes flutter open of their own volition, and I realize that I’m in Koen’s bedroom, again.

Stealing his bed, again. Unable to recall how I ended up here, again .

My last memories are blurred. Working on a letter.

Yawning till my eyes were a constant stream of tears.

Sliding under the covers. I must have slept in, judging from the early afternoon light filtering inside.

Which explains the wake- up call.

Koen sits on the piano stool, his back a bare expanse interrupted only by the waistband of his jeans. He is, at once, relaxed and in movement, muscles shifting occasionally, always in time with the music. What would it be like, to feel them vibrate against my cheek, or the flesh of my palm?

Sitting up is difficult, because my limbs are pulled pork. “Is this . . . ?”

“Still not Bach, killer.” His long fingers don’t miss a single key.

I really need to broaden my operatic horizons. “How did your meeting with the huddle leaders go?”

Koen feels distant, which surprises me after our hug yesterday, on the porch.

He’s not the type for mood swings— his mood tends to be consistently shitty.

Am I missing something? “They all acknowledge the threat, and we’re all on the same page.

Which is more than I can say about the first time this happened.

” One last, oddly strident note, and he turns to face me directly.

He leans forward, elbows on his spread thighs.

His eyes bore , debone me, until I can’t help fidgeting.

“Is anything . . .” I run a hand through my hair. “Are you— ”

Why is my hair wet?

What is this T- shirt that I’m wearing?

And the claw marks on my forearms—

Last night’s events hit me like a sledgehammer. Fuck.

Fuck.

I pull back the covers, intending to run for the bathroom mirror, but my quads are incapable of supporting me, and I fall back into the mattress. “My eyes— ”

“Are as usual,” he replies calmly.

I rub my face. Shit. That was bad. That was so bad—

“How long have you been feeling poorly?” Koen asks, rudely interrupting my panic tailspin.

I can tell with a millisecond-long glance that he’s willing to slow roast the truth out of me. But what kind of veteran liar would I even be if I didn’t attempt a weak “I’m not. It was just— ”

“Serena.” He looks at me like I’m not just insulting his intelligence, but also lowering the IQ of the entire pack.

Okay. Fine. No games. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know .”

“Four months. Twelve years.”

His eyes harden. “What a helpfully narrow interval.”

“I really don’t know. None of this is normal, Koen.

None of this is not terrible, and— ” I stop.

Take a deep breath, letting the soothing scents of Koen and tea spread through my lungs.

There is a steaming mug on the nightstand, and after a few sips I no longer feel like blurting my entire miserable story out to him.

Progress. “The fevers began four or five months ago. But Dr. Henshaw says that this is a degenerative condition that starts before symptoms manifest.” Koen stares at me like I’m wasting his time by not telling him everything that happened in the last decade of my life, so I continue.

“It’s a Were disorder that has no equivalent among Humans.

Relatively common among Weres in their ninth or tenth decade, but not unheard of in younger patients. It’s called CSD, which stands for— ”

“Cortisol surge disorder.”

“You’re familiar. Good.” His look tells me that nothing about this is in any realm adjacent to good . I avert my gaze. “The fevers are caused by . . . Basically, chronic stress fucked up my inflammatory and anti-inflammatory signals. Again, not uncommon.”

“CSD can be treated.”

“Yeah. In Weres, it can. Sometimes. But my hybrid biology hasn’t been responding to meds. My hormonal levels are getting worse, and Dr. Henshaw said . . .” I suck my teeth. “Not compatible with life. That’s how he put it.”

Koen’s eyelids are the only moving parts of his body. They flutter closed, then open again as he asks calmly, “How long?”

“Six months at the most. But that was . . . two months ago.”

“I see.” He seems bizarrely unperturbed. An Alpha trait, maybe: set aside emotions, absorb information. I’m sure it’s useful in a crisis, but his cold grilling is somewhat disturbing. “What treatments did he attempt?”

“All of them. He involved his colleagues, and . . . believe me when I say, no stone was left unturned. But the side effects were bad, and my deterioration was steady. Linear, originally, then exponential.”

“Is it still? Getting worse?”

After a beat, I nod. “The fevers are almost nightly. And the eye thing, the claws . . . those are new. I don’t know what that was.”

“Arms and eyes are where the shift to wolf form starts,” he explains. “Their motor proteins activate first.”

“Really? Is that the reason . . . ?”

“Maybe your fever triggers the shift, but your body cannot see it through. Or vice versa. I don’t know. I barely ever took a science class.”

“Really?” I tilt my head. “Why?”

“Because I was too busy protecting my pack from a coup to finish high school. Does the Vampyre know?”

“Misery? No. When I started seeing Dr. Henshaw, I told her some bullshit about having headaches, and— ”

Koen snorts.

“What?”

“Just shocked the Vampyre still trusts your lies, is all.”

I frown. “Every lie I’ve told Misery was to protect her from— ”

“I’m sure your pretty little head made up a million good reasons and topped them with those gross formaldehyde cherries. Still can’t believe she lets you out of her sight.”

“No one ‘lets’ me do stuff or go places,” I point out tiredly. “That’s not how it works, Koen.”

“If you were mine, it would. And clearly, you fucking should be.” I can’t tell if it’s a threat or a promise. All of a sudden, Koen’s eyes are so full of anger, I shiver and turn aside.

“Is that why you were in the fucking woods alone for two months? Why you’re here now? Some fucked- up notion of sparing your sister from finding out that the person she cares the most about in the whole world is ill?”

Guilt stuffs my throat full. This is the part I’m most embarrassed to speak out loud, but I force myself to do it anyway. “One night I woke up in Ana’s room. With no idea how I’d gotten there.”

Koen inhales sharply. Like he already knows where this is going. “You didn’t hurt her, Serena.”

“No, but I could have. I was boiling hot and disoriented, and CSD patients can often experience aggressive episodes, and . . .” I shake my head. “It’s for the best. If I told Misery, she’d want to be with me. But Ana needs her more than I do, so— ”

Something lands on the comforter with a soft thud.

I gasp. “These are my . . .”

“Letters. To Ana and the Vampyre.”

“Where did you find them? You had no right to— ”

“On your bed. Unfolded.”

“That doesn’t excuse— ”

“Serena.” It’s little more than a whisper, but everything about Koen, from his voice to the taut flex in his biceps, tells me how deeply unwilling he is to let me express righteous indignation over the violation of my privacy.

He continues, composed, soft spoken, just as calm: “Last night, I didn’t know if you’d ever wake up again. ”

It’s heart snapping, as far as realizations go. I worked my way up to really bad attacks, but he had no context for what he experienced a few hours ago. It hadn’t occurred to me how scary it would be for him to witness it.

Because that’s what he is. Scared. Terrified in a way he may have never experienced before. It makes my stomach twist and my eyes burn.

“I’m sorry.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand.

“I’d written those back at the cabin, but .

. . well, I had to redo them. They’re for Misery, for the most part.

And Ana— from someone who’s like her. And I wrote one for Lowe, too, but it’s mostly about how to take care of Misery once I’m not .

. . I mean, he’s doing a great job already.

But there are some quirks you only find out by living with someone for a decade, like Misery’s penchant for hate-reading, her terrible taste in clothes if left to her own devices, the fact that sometimes she uses fancy words without really knowing their meaning.

She could fall back into her mismatched socks phase, and . . .”

“Why are you crying?” Koen asks gently.

I sniffle. “I’m not sure. Could you please forget that you know? I’d rather not talk about— ”

“That’s no longer an option.” His tone is kind but steel boned. “I’m your Alpha. And I need you to be honest with me.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath. Gather myself.

“Dr. Henshaw has my labs. All my data. He has a lot of information at his disposal, and he was able to reconstruct the progression of my condition. I don’t know how much of this is due to me being a hybrid, but if it is, and if something similar were to happen to Ana .

. . Dr. Henshaw is under instructions to inform Lowe, after .

. . afterward . I hope it’ll help, and— ”

“After what, Serena?”

“— I’m not precious about that stuff. It’s more that I don’t want them to freak out or feel like they have to— ”