Mate - 15

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!”

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.