Текст книги "Mate"

Автор книги: Ali Hazelwood

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Koen’s face, on the other hand, is etched in stone. “Serena,” he murmurs, scent spiking, voice otherworldly, and it feels like . . . I don’t know. A question, maybe. An invitation. A turn in the road, and the beginning of something.

We could kiss. If we wanted to, it would be the perfect position, the perfect situation.

We can’t, I scream inside my head. Are you insane?

But that’s not true at all. I can’t, because I have no time left. Koen’s Alpha. Koen can do whatever the hell he wants. Koen gets to decide if—

“I told you,” he says calmly. All of a sudden, he’s ice cold. “I’m not interested.”

My stomach hollows. The words reverberate through me, harsher than a slap.

“Alpha?”

I turn to the door. A man with gray-streaked temples and a kind, weathered smile is studying us curiously. I make to leap away from Koen, but his fingers free themselves to tighten around my hip, stopping me.

“Sorry I’m so late. John asked for more and more stories, and . . .” The man’s gaze catches on me. The way I’m perched in his Alpha’s lap. “That’s my six-year-old.”

I try to stand again, and at last Koen lets go of me. I rise to my feet and take a step away, not hasty but determined.

What the hell was I doing?

“Bedtime is still your favorite part of the day, huh?” Koen asks breezily, and the man lets out a low, pain-filled groan. It’s like nothing just happened. Because nothing happened, I remind myself. He just said that he’s not interested. And it wasn’t the first time. “Mai, this is Serena. Serena, Mai is in charge of our northeast borders. You’ve been keeping him busy.”

“Me?”

Mai nods. “We stopped eleven Vampyres from entering our borders in the last two days.”

I gasp. “Eleven? Is that a real number?”

“Would you like to see their bodies?” Koen asks.

“No.”

“Good.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They’re not in great shape.”

I swallow. “Did you figure out which councilmember sent them?”

“Nope. They were all independent agents interested in the bounty and didn’t know much. But I bet whoever’s behind the reward is getting impatient. They’ll make a stupid move soon enough.”

“Good. Well, not good, but . . .” I wince. My heartbeat seems to have stabilized. “Thank you, Mai, for . . . keeping me safe. And I’m sorry that you got stuck with the Vampyre-killing job.”

“Are you kidding? I love it.”

“Do you?”

“Mai is my eldest second,” Koen explains. “He gets his pick of assignments.”

We chat for a while. Mai pulls out his phone to show us a few pictures of John, who looks adorable, and a menace, and wants to be Koen when he grows up– like most children in the pack, apparently. But something needling and confusing sticks to the walls of my head, a thought that won’t let go, not even hours later, when I’m alone in bed under the covers, surrounded by home-decor-store quantities of pillows.

Mai is my eldest second, Koen said. The problem is, Mai looks half a decade older than Koen, tops. Which would put him around only forty. Not eldest material.

Unable to sleep despite my exhaustion, I retrace the last few days. Every step I’ve taken since entering Northwest territory. Every person I met. And when the realization hits me, I want to take my lack of observational skills and drown it in the nearby river. I can’t believe it took me so long to notice how young everyone is.

This is not the typical age distribution for a pack. I’ve now met most of Lowe’s seconds, and a third of them looked old enough to be his parents. Not to mention that Lowe’s house was somewhat of a revolving door of Weres of all ages seeking audience for all sorts of problems.

So it’s something else. I turn inward, gears spinning. When it comes to the Northwest, I have a lot of pieces, but I’m not sure how they fit together. Yet.

On impulse, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and type a text.

U up?

Misery: I’m a Vampyre and it’s the middle of the night.

I roll my eyes. Can you ask Lowe how long Koen has been Alpha?

The reply comes in seconds. I won’t.

Serena: Why?

Misery: Because I already know the answer.

I roll my eyes harder. Misery, how long has Koen been Alpha?

Misery: So nice of you to ask! Twenty-one years. Why?

I set the phone aside.

Koen was fifteen when he became Alpha. Fifteen. And around the same time, something big happened– something that killed Brenna’s family, destroyed pack records, and gave the Northwest a reason to reunite.

I’m not sure what the age of majority is among Weres, but I’ve seen the way young Were members are treated in packs, and I can’t imagine anyone would be happy with a fifteen-year-old becoming Alpha, least of all the fifteen-year-old in question.

Unless . . .

Unless there were no alternatives. Unless there were no dominant older members to take over. Because everyone who was past their late teens left, or was . . . eliminated. Some kind of accident? An attack? But how does that happen? What slices a pack with such surgical precision? Who does?

I grab my phone again. Ask Lowe how a boy of fifteen managed to unify an entire pack.

I fall asleep several minutes later, still waiting for the answer.

CHAPTER 15

The cabin smells like . . .

Impossible. He must be losing his mind.

THE NIGHT BRINGS SPANKING NEW LEVELS OF PAIN AND MORTIFICATION.

The recollections do not abound, but as far as I can tell: I wake up a few hours after going to bed, gasping like a rhino with sleep apnea, and make my way to the bathroom as my body works through spasms, cramps, and the fire taking over every layer of my epidermis. I sit in the shower as cold water flows over my head and beg my soon– to– be corpse to pipe the fuck down. I picture Koen walking in to find what’s left of me, a beached manta ray lifeless on the bathroom floor, deflated after puking up her internal organs.

That’s when it all gets fuzzy. I don’t recall getting up or leaving the bathroom. I definitely don’t recall crawling into Koen’s bed. And yet it’s where I wake up. Could be a Were evolutionary trait: in the face of probable death, seek refuge close to Alpha. I might be onto something. I should ask Koen, if I’m ever able to face him after what I’ve done to his room.

It’s . . . a lot.

In the harsh morning light, I stare down at the drenched mess of his bed. I wobble on my feet, strip the cotton sheets off the mattress, and realize that it soaked through. It’s sweat. A lot of sweat. Just spent one hour on the treadmill sweat. My scent is thick, pungent, vaguely reminiscent of things I’d rather not acknowledge.

And it saturates every inch of his bed.

This is an invasion of Koen’s private space.

It’s desecrating.

Small mercy is, Koen spent the night outside. I beg the god of physiologically dysregulated bitches with sleep disorders to keep him away for ten more minutes. I stuff his bedding, then mine, in the laundry machine. Setting: bulky items. Then I clean his room, trying to force it to smell . . . like not me, but also like a deranged person didn’t just pour disinfectant all over– a fine, impossible– to– strike balance.

I speed through my shower, rehearsing what I’ll tell Koen if he calls me out on this new sanitizing facet of my personality. Why did I wash your sheets? Because I’m a wonderful houseguest. Would you like a complimentary glass of limoncello? I get dressed in my new clothes, but something feels . . . wrong. On my way out, I have an idea– one that no sane person would entertain, but that’s no longer my side of the Venn diagram. I slip back inside Koen’s room, steal one of his T– shirts, hastily put it on under my sweater.

And exhale in relief.

It’s as though my fur was being brushed against the grain, but this five-dollar shirt smoothed it back down where it belongs. No, I won’t be pondering the matter at this moment.

I walk to the back porch and find Amanda wearing a long parka and nothing else. “Oh my God.” She lights up when I hand her a mug of coffee. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Patrolling around me.”

“Are you kidding? I get to chill in wolf form. Pay attention to forest noises. Growl at the squirrels. It’s everyone’s favorite kind of duty. Well, except for Jorma. But that’s because he’s thirsty for spreadsheets.”

I take a seat and follow her gaze to the group of wolves a couple hundred feet ahead of us. They sit on their hind legs, observing the spectacle– which happens to be a fight.

Which happens to involve Koen.

I stare at his wolf form. The double-layered coat. His muscular frame. His terrifying maw. I guess I have one, too, but I haven’t seen it in a while. Nor am I currently wrapping it around the bare throat of a fellow Were, like it’s an oven-roasted turkey leg.

The smaller reddish-brown wolf lets out a whimpering, submissive sound. When Koen releases her, she briefly rolls on her back to show her soft belly. Then, after an affectionate nip from her Alpha, she trots toward the rest of the group, and a new fighter takes her place. I spot Twinkles among them. He looks very excited to be in the thick of the action, if comically smaller than the Weres surrounding him. Still, Ana will be pleased to hear that he’s keeping busy.

“Is that . . . normal?” I ask.

“Mm?”

“That’s not the challenge, right? The one that determines the new Alpha?”

She spits out a mouthful of coffee. “Serena, they are play-fighting.”

“Okay. Just making sure.”

“It’s to blow off steam.” Amanda brushes liquid off her coat. “You see how the bites are softer? The ears are relaxed. Tail’s neutral. It’ll become easier to recognize as you spend more time in wolf form.”

It won’t, but I smile and nod anyway.

“Play-fight is an honored Were pastime.”

“I guess not everyone has the knees for pickleball.”

She laughs. “I’ll teach you. And Koen, he’s fun to spar with. He’s strong, but his self-control is ironclad– ”

She cuts off as a ruckus rises. We turn just in time to see Koen ramming his head into the flank of a newcomer. He gets in a few bruising hits, then pins the dark gray wolf to the ground with enough pressure to suffocate and stops only when he whines in pain.

Amanda clears her throat. “Maybe Koen’s not the best option just now. Things are . . . a lot.”

“Is something happening? Is it that meeting with the huddle leaders you mentioned?”

“No. Well, yes. But that is . . . It might be nothing. We’re still hoping . . .” She scrunches her nose. “Actually, this one might have to do with you.”

“With me?”

“Well, he’s living under the same roof as his mate. He’s around you a lot, and I think he . . . he feels it. If you know what I mean.”

I don’t, really– until I do. And no longer want to intake air.

“He . . . ?” I can’t bring myself to continue.

“He’s horny as fuck,” Amanda says, taking pity on me. “At the mercy of his own lustful concupiscence. Probably jerks off every three hours. I assume you were about to say that?”

I was not. In fact, I was thinking about last night, about his hands on me, and wondering, If Koen wants to . . . If Koen wants to, with me, then why not?

The question builds a hazy, thick heat in my head, a delicious drip that coalesces into a new idea. It hammers an achy place at the bottom of my stomach. If not getting laid affects Koen to this degree, if he’s shifting into wolf form and sauntering off to strangle grizzly bears . . . shouldn’t I do something about it?

I certainly could. I’ve had sex with men I liked and respected less than Koen, after all. Almost exclusively. And I . . . It’s not that I . . . I wouldn’t mind. My flustered state of mind proves it. My heart, beating so loud against my rib cage that Amanda must be wondering whether I have angina– that proves it, too.

So why not?

Because you’re about to give up the ghost. And because he has told you multiple times how little he wants you. That’s why not. When it comes to Koen’s desires, are you really going to believe Amanda over Koen himself?

No. I won’t. The issue is simple enough: Koen may want me, but he doesn’t want to want me.

Still, there’s no reason for him to blue ball it.

“He doesn’t need to be,” I tell Amanda, ignoring the acid taste of the words on my tongue. Maybe she’ll let him know. Maybe she’ll sign him up for a dating app named Howlr, which someone should totally invent. He probably has a bunch of fuck buddies lined up already.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that since Koen and I are not . . . It doesn’t mean that he has to be all . . . pent up. Not that he would need my permission. But since I’m staying at his house, it might be difficult for him to . . . I guess what I’m trying to say is, I can make myself scarce. And I wouldn’t complain or anything if he were to bring someone over to . . .” I force out a smile, feeling nauseous. “Slake his lustful concupiscence.”

She studies me for such a long stretch, I wonder whether my babbling has hypnotized her.

“Amanda? Is everything okay?”

“Has Koen not told you? Or Lowe? Or anyone else?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

She takes a deep breath. Runs the back of her hand over her mouth. And then resigns herself to be the one to give me the news. “Serena, the Alpha of Northwest pack is traditionally asked to honor a celibacy covenant. He’s forbidden by law to engage in any kind of intimate relationships– emotional or physical.”

CHAPTER 16

He told her that he would never touch her because he didn’t want her enough; in truth, he will never touch her because he wants her too much. The make-believe, he thinks, was kinder to both of them.

I’M STILL WORKING ON GRASPING THE IMPLICATIONS OF WHAT Amanda revealed, but she’s already doling out more. “. . .not much has changed for him. Your presence, that’s throwing him off. At least, I think so– Koen’s not really the type to walk around griping about the discontented state of his nuts. And he never seemed affected by the covenant. He’s been dealing with it for twenty years, but I doubt it was a burden to him. I’ve never even seen him look at a woman, so– ”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Lowe is with Misery. I know that the Alpha of one of the New England packs has a mate. Was this rule made for Koen?”

Amanda massages her eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“The celibacy covenant used to be common practice in packs. The idea is that if a pack gives an Alpha absolute power over them, the Alpha should be able to guarantee that the well-being of the pack will be the most important thing for them. But if every decision needs to be made for the good of the pack– ”

“Other priorities are a threat,” I finish, starting to understand. “Like a partner. Or children.”

“Precisely,” she mumbles, frowning as she takes a sip of coffee.

“But you don’t agree?”

“I . . . In theory, it makes sense. But falling in love and establishing relationships are not necessarily things one can control. And that’s before throwing in the issue of biological mates. Only a tiny percentage of us find one, but when we do . . .” Her eyes lift to the clearing above us. Koen and a pewter-gray wolf almost as large as he snarl at each other. “It was a difficult rule. Not to mention, some Alphas would take the covenant but disregard it.”

“Secret vitamin D deficient family in the basement?”

“In the crawl space, in the attic. Depending on the soil type and the frost line, but yes, pretty much.” She snorts. “The rule became obsolete. Some packs began ignoring it, others phased it out. But there were some hiccups.” Another sip, slower this time. “Although, if you want my opinion . . . Well, you didn’t ask, so– ”

“I’d love to know it, though,” I hurry to say.

“In that case, prepare for a world-class harangue.” She turns. Her knee bumps into mine. “Alphas are people. And people make mistakes. That’s why packs have systems of checks and balances. We have an Assembly that can dispute the Alpha’s decisions if need be. And rules are well and good, but all they can affect is behavior. They cannot police something as personal and disorderly as a feeling, so– ” She stops, maybe realizing that she is, in fact, haranguing. When she resumes, her tone is softer. “Seventy or so years ago, the rule was slowly being rolled back all over North America. The Midwest pack was at the forefront of that. And after a decade or so, the first reports of leaders taking advantage of their newfound freedom started bleeding through. An Alpha fucking his way through his own pack. Granting privileges in exchange for sex. Quid pro quo stuff.”

My stomach turns. “Did they stop him?”

“He was challenged and is currently fertilizing the world’s most rancid corncob. But it felt like a cautionary tale. The Northwest decided to keep the celibacy covenant, and for the following decades, our Alphas seemed okay with it. Not everyone wants to be sexually active or in a relationship, you know? It was a problem for later.” Amanda chews at her lower lip. “And then later came.”

“Was that four decades ago? The Alpha before Koen?”

“A little less than that. But yeah.” She sets the mug down, as if she’ll need all her limbs for this. “She was a fantastic Alpha. Also, she was in love and unapologetic about it. She asked the Assembly to rescind the covenant. According to my mother, at the time the Assembly was a crock of geezers whose main hobby was to shake their fists at the clouds. Or maybe they were just cautious. They studied every known case of Alpha misconduct, came up with a hundred scenarios in which revoking the covenant would lead to an asteroid shower extinguishing all aerobic life, and denied her.”

“Is that why the huddles seceded?”

“Yup. I was born within the core, that year. And the huddles . . . Even after the partitioning, most members’ instinct was still to unite under one Alpha. The Assembly continued to exist as an entity, to ensure good relations among the huddles, which all formed a loose alliance. And over the years, as new huddle leaders were elected, its composition changed to more progressive Weres, and . . . the tide was shifting. It seemed certain that the pack would reunite soon enough.” Her fingers tighten around the balustrade. “And then we were attacked.”

“Amanda, I– ”

“You’re sorry, I know.” She reaches out to me with a small smile. Clasps my upper arm through the fabric of my sweater. “I appreciate it, Serena.”

“I know it was the Humans, and I– ”

“What?” Her eyes round in surprise. “Who told you that?”

“Brenna.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not true, and such a bullshit read of what . . . Humans were involved, yes, but the true responsibility is with the Weres.”

“Wow, that’s both my species. What a coincidence.”

Amanda laughs. Squeezes me one last time before letting go. “You’re no more to blame for this than I am. Or Koen. He was fifteen, but he took over, neutralized the threat, convinced the huddles that we’d be stronger together. And when the Assembly’s condition was to reintroduce the celibacy covenant . . .”

“He agreed.” I nod, ignoring the rocks in my stomach. Koen doesn’t need me feeling sorry for him.

“It’s kinda funny. I mean, Koen truly does whatever the fuck he wants. He hasn’t met a rule he didn’t love to break, but the covenant . . . he’s a stickler for that one.” A small shrug. “I’m just not sure that he cares to be, at the moment.”

I don’t get it, the weight settling on my chest. Koen is a powerful man with near-unlimited resources and the adoration of the masses. Some masses. He even has his own private fight club– the dream of every thirty-six-year-old teenaged man.

Except, being barred from relationships cannot be an easy decision to make, especially at fifteen. And . . . why did he not tell me? The first time we met, he informed me that I was his mate, but he never mentioned the covenant.

This conversation is not an invitation.

Even when I clumsily asked him out . . .

Like me, or don’t. I really couldn’t care less.

And last night . . .

I told you. I’m not interested.

He made it sound like he didn’t want to be with me. Never mentioned that he wasn’t allowed to.

“We were wondering . . .” A male voice interrupts my thoughts. When I glance up, Saul and Jorma are standing in front of the cabin, naked. I deliberately keep my eyes above their necks and try not to choke on my own breath. “Hey, guys.”

Saul grins. Winks at me, like one does. “Hey, honey. Jorma and I were in the area, to . . .”

“Take Koen’s beatings?” Amanda offers.

“Yeah, that. And we remembered that last night you mentioned how much you love to cook. So we figured you probably made something for breakfast today, and since it’s so hard to eyeball portions, you might have leftovers. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste, you know?”

I bite back a smile. “What would you guys like?”

“Oh, we don’t want to put you out. Just, if you have something you’re gonna toss anyway . . .”

I turn to Jorma, who’s high on directness and low on bullshit. “What would he like?”

“French toast, please,” Jorma says. “With a side of sausages.”

“You absolutely do not have to cook for these losers,” Amanda tells me. Then adds, “But if you do, please remember that I, too, did not have breakfast.”

I grin. “Come on in, then.”

Less than an hour later, my culinary ego has grown to the size of a quasar. From the window, I watch Jorma, Saul, and Amanda jump off Koen’s porch and shift into majestic wolves in midair. I follow their supple forms until they disappear. That’s when my phone rings with an unknown number.

In the past, I’d have eaten glass with gonorrhea smeared on it before picking up. However, because of my current high-reward social lifestyle, I have only two contacts: Misery– saved from memory– and Koen– preprogrammed. Which means that I’m not in a position to reject any unknown callers.

“It’s Juno,” the voice on the other end says, and I slump in relief. I don’t have the emotional strength to fend off financial fraud. “The Humans have gotten back to me about your DNA.”

I straighten. “Any news?”

“Yes and no.”

“Hit me.”

“As you know, the more distant the relation, the fewer the DNA segments shared, which decreases the likelihood of detecting– ”

“Juno,” I interrupt, amused.

“Yes?”

“It’s okay if you just tell me the findings.”

A pause. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I don’t trust you to understand the science behind– ”

“Feel free to condescend to me anytime.”

“In that case.” She takes a deep breath. “Your mother’s family seems to be from west of the Sawtooth Range.”

Sawtooth Range. Where have I heard of it? “Isn’t that part of the Rocky Mountains?”

“Correct.”

I visualize a map. Meaningless state lines that Humans drew up, splicing territories they haven’t visited in centuries. “Lakes area, right?”

“Correct,” she repeats.

“Borders with the . . . Midwest pack?”

Half a beat. “Actually, it’s closer to the eastern border of the Northwest territory.”

That would support Juno’s suspicion that my father was from here, too. “Is there a Human family member we could talk to?”

“The closest relatives we found were distant cousins. Not to mention . . .”

“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.”