Текст книги "Mate"

Автор книги: Ali Hazelwood

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

CHAPTER 2

“Absolutely fucking no.”

“If you don’t tell her, Koen, she’ll find out anyway.”

“How? Will she steal my diary? Is she able to read minds?”

Lowe, in his defense, has the grace to look vaguely self-conscious. “I won’t hide it from Misery. And Misery won’t hide it from her.”

“Oh, fuck off. I liked it better when you were lonely and sad and depressed. Listen, I tell Serena, and then what? Nothing could ever come of it, even if she’s interested.”

“If we made it publicly known . . . If she’s the mate of the Alpha of the Northwest, no Were will harm her. Hybrid or not.”

A mix of anger and outrage simmers in the pit of Koen’s stomach. “No Were will harm her, because I’ll be there to fucking kill them.”

“Will you? Misery is here, and Serena wants to be with Misery. You won’t be around.”

“Then I’ll move into the Moreland compound. My pack runs itself.”

But Lowe just looks at him like he did when he was twelve, already way too fucking serious for his age, like the pillars of Earth rest in his clenched sphincter, and Koen has never been able to stand it. Back then, all he wanted was to shield Lowe from the ugliness of being the kind of Weres they are. He still does.

“You’re so fucking annoying.” Koen drags a hand down his face.

“Yup.” Lowe stands. “Had a great role model.”

Four and a half months earlier

Southwest territory

KOEN ALEXANDER’S FIRST WORDS TO ME ARE “IT’S NOT plugged in.”

Memorable stuff, really.

I’m sure it’s the start of every epic love story: a girl, trying to turn on a laptop and jabbing the power button with increasing violence. A very big man in a plaid shirt, leaning cross armed against a doorjamb, staring skeptically at her. The ego-pulverizing embarrassment of making a less-than-excellent first impression on someone your friends love and respect.

Koen appeared in Lowe’s driveway a couple of hours ago, Lowe’s little sister in tow, triggering the family reunion that’s currently going on downstairs. It involves Ana being bubbly, Misery pretending not to adore her, and Lowe pretending not to be awestruck by Misery’s inability to successfully hide her adoration. It’s cute, and it deserves some privacy.

Misery is at her best. I may not be at my worst, but I’m still a definite work in progress.

I spent the last two months imprisoned in Vampyre territory. I was certain that my abduction would end with my spleen being fed to the raccoons, meaning that this is a second chance at life that I don’t yet know what to do with. I’ve been wading through time and space slowly, never fully coherent, constantly overstimulated. After months of silence, whispers are too loud. The cicadas feel single-mindedly focused on rupturing my eardrums. My skin is either boiling hot or a glacier. These days, I enjoy being on my own. So I snuck up to Lowe’s office. Sat on a leather chair. Grabbed a laptop and made the radical choice to check my email.

That’s where Koen found me and decided to educate me about electricity.

“Oh.” I glance at the, yes, very dangling power cord. “Duh.” I smile, trying to display the right ratio of self-deprecating to mortified, and look for an outlet.

“On your left,” he says.

I turn.

“Your other left.”

I want to go outside, swallow a porcupine, and wait for the internal hemorrhaging to finish me. Instead, I set the laptop aside and stand. “Koen, right? Nice to meet you.” I offer my hand– which he looks at but doesn’t take. Okay, I think, tucking it in my back pocket.

Maybe it’s a Were thing. Maybe Koen’s hand-shaking partners must clear a certain IQ threshold, which I clearly do not. Misery mentioned something about him being “an exceptional asshole”– a seldom-offered compliment from her– so if he doesn’t like me, I’m not going to bawl. There’s more pressing stuff taking up my brainpower. “Was there anything you needed?” I ask with a polite smile.

“To talk. Do you have a minute?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

He doesn’t tell me. Instead he looks, and looks, and looks some more. His eyes are . . . not black. Not gray, either. Somewhere in between. Reflective. They feel like tar: viscous, sticky, well-laid traps. I cannot tear mine away, but neither can I hold his gaze.

“Are you here to behold the hybrid?” I ask without hostility. The Weres I’ve met so far have shown me nothing but kindness, and their curiosity is a small price to pay for their welcome. Especially considering that most Humans would shoot me on sight. “Here I am.” I twirl around to give him the best three-sixty view of my aberrant self. “Honestly, I think I just look Human, but . . .” I cut off, because his eyes . . . That thing they’re doing, it’s not normal. They glow and contract and—

Koen grunts. His head tips back, showing a strong neck and a working throat. “What the fuck have I done to deserve this?” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Actually, I just remembered.” He lowers his chin and sighs. His voice is deep and gravelly. “I’ve been a piece of shit for most of my life, that’s what.”

“I . . . don’t follow?”

Heavy steps thud up the stairs. It’s Lowe, who joins us and asks, “You told her?”

“Not yet.”

Lowe nods, and I get my first hint that whatever Koen wants from me, it’s probably a bit more serious than May I ask about your hybrid diet and musculoskeletal system and whether you molt in the fall?

“Where’s Misery?” I ask, suddenly terrified. “And Ana?”

“They’re fine. Both downstairs.” Lowe pauses. “Do you want Misery here?”

“I . . .” Yes. Kind of. But also, I do miss being a functioning adult who can operate without her Vampyre security blanket. “Nah.”

Lowe turns to Koen. “You really want to tell her now?”

“Might as well.”

The two men stand, silent, staring– Lowe like I’m a wounded kitten he’s trying to corner for an injection, and Koen . . . I can’t get a good read on him, which might account for how alarming I find him.

Or it could be the scars. The three parallel claw marks on his face, for instance. The one in the middle is the longest: it starts up in his forehead, dissects his brow, and continues down his cheek in a thin, straight line. He also has small ones on his upper lip, at the base of his jaw, past his collarbone. But none are hungry or red or new. None suggest that he’s itching for a fight.

He’s big, too– as in, big. Just a couple of inches taller than Lowe, but approximately ninety times more intimidating. It’s because Lowe feels domesticated, a wise, instinctual voice explains from the recesses of my skull. Lowe can, and will, control and pace himself. Koen is a wild card. Koen is raw. Koen will do whatever the hell he—

“You are my mate,” he says. With little inflection.

So little, I must have misheard. I learned it back in college. Linguistics elective, junior year. The rhythmic patterns of language contribute to listening comprehension. “Excuse me?”

“You and the Vampyre are close, right?” he asks, full of that calm that borders on indifference. Is he making fun of me? “She explained what a mate is?”

Slowly, I nod.

“What Misery is to Lowe, you are to me.”

Oh.

Oh?

Oh. “Is this a, um . . . terminal diagnosis?”

His lips twitch. “No cure, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” I clear my throat. “Well, this relationship sure escalated quickly.”

His words surprised me, but the way the corners of his eyes crease in amusement shocks me tenfold. His laugh is a deep, warm chuckle that makes my heart stumble. “You have no idea, kid.”

I cross my arms. “Should you be calling me ‘kid,’ given the situation?”

“I’m not married to it. What would you prefer?”

“Well, there’s always my actual name. But if you insist on a nickname, I’d prefer something with a bit more . . .”

“More?”

“More teeth.”

His eyebrow rises. “Root canal?”

“No. Come on, you know what I mean. Something that inspires fear.”

“Real estate market crash.”

“Okay, maybe less fear and more . . . awe. Warrior-like.”

His once-over is skeptical. “You’re what? Five feet?”

“I’m two and a half inches over that. And for your information, the other day these stubby little legs butchered several Vampyres.”

“Look at you go, killer.”

“Guys.” Lowe’s voice startles me. I forgot he was there. “We should get back to the matter at hand.”

Koen and I exchange a brief Can you believe this narc? glance.

“I think that part of the conversation is over,” Koen says, pushing nonchalantly away from the doorway. “She’s been informed. She understands. We can all resume our normal activities, such as running packs, or”– he glances at my laptop– “boycotting power outlets.”

I stave off a smile. “I forget one time and– ”

“Serena.” Lowe. Interrupting again. “Do you really understand what it means?” The urgency in his tone is a confusing contrast to Koen’s indifference.

And then the full impact of it slams into me.

No, I don’t understand. Because I haven’t even stopped to consider it. “Is it . . . Does it mean that he . . .” On the mate thing, Misery was light on the specifics. And it’s not as though Lowe unburdens his secret heart to me. “Does it mean that he likes me?”

“Yes,” Lowe says– which perfectly covers Koen’s “No.”

I frown. “Wow. This is bringing me lots of clarity. Thanks, guys.”

Lowe glares at Koen, who’s sporting a shit-eating grin. “Look, I’m sure you’re a very likable person. It’s not what this is about, though.”

“What is it about?”

Lowe massaged the bridge of his nose. “For a Were, finding a mate triggers a chain of physiological changes. Misery compared it to falling in love at first sight, and there’s some truth to that, but– ”

“I’m sorry.” I cut in. “Could you leave the two of us alone?” I’m looking at Koen, but the question is for Lowe– whose concerned scent signals a strong objection.

In all fairness, a one– on– one with a possible nutjob who wants me to become his mail-order bride does seem like a terrible idea. But I suspect that if Koen wanted to hurt me, he could do it whether Lowe was babysitting us or not.

More importantly: I suspect that Koen has no interest in doing any of that.

“Please,” I add calmly.

In response to Lowe’s searching gaze, Koen nods. Once.

“Call if you need anything,” Lowe says gruffly before turning on his heel, an invite interestingly directed at both me and Koen.

Then we’re alone. Somehow, my stomach feels ten pounds lighter. Weird. “Will you come in, please? And, ah, sit down.”

He does, no questions asked– kneeling briefly to plug my damn charger into the damn socket. I pretend not to see it, and close the door.

Koen slouches lazily on the chair next to mine, almost too relaxed, a large apex predator examining its quarry. Like we’re about to discuss the new garbage collection schedule, and not a major psychosocial milestone in the life of a Were. Maybe this mate business isn’t that big of a deal?

“Lowe seems . . .” I return to my chair. Run my palms down the legs of my sweats. “Very protective. Of me and of you, I think.”

“Isn’t he fucking adorable?” Koen’s tone is pure fondness. “Always been like that, since before his balls dropped. Best Were I’ve ever met.”

I smile. “I’m glad Misery is in good hands.”

“And vice versa.”

I tilt my head. “It doesn’t bother you that she’s a Vampyre?”

“They obviously care for each other.” He sounds as though nothing else would ever factor into his approval, which I find very endearing.

“So.” I run my tongue against the back of my teeth. “Love at first sight, huh?”

Koen winces. “Not quite. Lowe’s a bit of a romantic.”

“Oh?”

“A side effect of all that decency, probably. Colors his perception of the world.”

“But your perception is unmarred. Because you’re not decent?”

He doesn’t reply, but he smells like he agrees. “What’s happening here has very little to do with loving or liking, Serena.”

“What does it have to do with, then?”

A beat. His lips curve. “Really?”

I stare at him, stumped.

“Oh, killer. I’m happy to spell it out for you, if you need me to.”

“I do need you to. Like I’m five, preferably.”

“Not sure I can make it anything under NC– 17.”

“What do you– ooh.” My cheeks flood with heat. After gawking owl-eyed at Koen for a long stretch, I realize that I’m clutching my chest like a Victorian governess and abruptly let go.

“I . . .” I shake my head, not wanting to come across as some sex– ed– deprived orphan who thinks that childbirth occurs when nose boogers reach critical mass.

I’m not. Although I used to be, in my teens. Misery was the Vampyre Collateral, obligated to live among Humans, to be killed if the Vampyres violated the rules of the ceasefire between the two species. I was her companion– an orphan randomly selected to be her friend and make sure that she wouldn’t get too lonely (something no one gave a shit about) or too disruptive (something everyone was scared shitless of). Except that the Randomly Selected Human Orphan turned out to be more like the Purposefully Chosen Human-Were Hybrid Who Needed to Be Kept Under Surveillance by the Vampyres to Prevent the World from Finding Out That Humans and Weres Are Actually Reproductively Compatible and Might Therefore Decide to Not Hate Each Other or Even Form Alliances Against the Vampyres.

Plot twist.

But at the time, no one knew that. Back then, my entire value was exclusively reflected in Misery. My education hinged on hers. And since no one was certified to teach reproductive anatomy to a Vampyre, I didn’t get sex ed, either.

Once we got out, though, we had unlimited access to the internet and dates and boyfriends. And, of course, sex.

Except, that was a lifetime ago. A handful of years that might as well be entire geologic eras. Back then, I was Human. I wasn’t terrified of the full moon, or of what color my blood would spill if I cut myself. Once I began to realize that there was something very, very wrong with me, the entire concept of sex became laughably trivial. At the beginning of my abduction, I was briefly concerned that it might be forced upon me. When that wasn’t the case, it was pleasantly forgotten.

And now here I am. Thinking about it. Sex is a giant winged dragon, stretching awake in my head.

“Can you . . .” I swallow. “These biological changes you mentioned. Can you control yourself?”

The meaning takes a minute to sink in. When it does, I half expect Koen to resent my question, but there’s no trace of defensiveness in his firm “Always.”

It makes it easier to believe him. “So, basically, you just want to . . . ?”

“Correct.” He nods casually. Yes, I would love a cup of Earl Grey. Yes, I’ll respond to a brief survey in exchange for a ten percent discount on my purchase. Yes, I do want to f—

“I hope I don’t sound conceited, but . . . how is it different from the reaction of most Human men I’ve met?” I cringe the instant the words are out. “God. I do sound conceited. I’m sorry. I promise I don’t walk around thinking that my face launches a thousand erections– ”

“You’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen,” he says simply.

Like it’s not a big deal.

Like he’s complimenting my taste in socks.

Like I could resemble the reflection of a wart on a doorknob, and it would change nothing for him.

Which might be just what I need. My looks have always been a sore point for me. Something ugly, to be ashamed of. Sexualized too young, a friend with a psychology degree once said. Misery and I turned twelve, and our paths diverged. She became longer, graceful, ethereal. I, softer. Rounder. Suddenly my body burst. I bloomed into something with hips and breasts, and people– mostly adult men– would look at me in ways that hopscotched between uncomfortable and dangerous.

Maybe it’s a good thing, Misery said skeptically, noticing the way Mr. Elrod would track my movements. Maybe it means that you’re beautiful?

I doubt men twice my age looking at me is a proxy for anything other than them wanting to take advantage. And that was the crux of it. Misery was the Collateral. Misery needed to be kept alive, or an interspecies war would ravage the south of the North American continent. Above all, Misery was special, and therefore off-limits.

I, on the other hand, was a Human orphan. Replaceable. A dime a dozen– less than. My value was null, and the staff was fully aware. I saw it in their stares. Heard it in the comments they never bothered to whisper. Felt it in how intensely I had to request, press, beg, advocate, to receive my first bra, or clothes that I wouldn’t outgrow in a few months. I was there at their discretion, and without protection. If I wasn’t careful, who knew what might happen?

I knew. And when I was twelve, I began wedging a chair under the door of my room every night.

“I don’t doubt you’re approached by many men. But I’m not Human, so I’m not sure how it differs.” He shrugs, once again bored by the conversation. “It might be just quantitative. In the end, it’s hormones. Sex. The rest– liking, or loving, doesn’t come with it.”

“I see.” I drum my fingers over my armrest and lean back, observing. Not just Koen, but also the way Koen makes me feel. In my previous life, I wouldn’t have spared him a single glance. Were Serena, though, studies the lock of black hair falling over his forehead; the clean-shaven, aggressively handsome face. He is too intense, too brash. Too rough around the edges, and at least a decade older than me.

I have– had?– a type: cute, polite, solicitous. Boyish. My age. Gentle guys who underlined their favorite prose passages in books we buddy read, and who were secure enough in their masculinity to borrow my moisturizer when they spent the night. I never enjoyed being overwhelmed.

Koen is the Alpha of a pack that takes up a quarter of the country. Koen confuses me just by breathing the same air. Koen is so diametrically opposed to the kind of men I prefer, a protractor must be involved. “The gist of this,” I summarize, as though taking minutes for a meeting, “is that you find me attractive.”

“That might be the dictionary definition of ‘understatement,’ but yes.”

I’m a little heated. “But you won’t, um, die of a broken heart over me?”

He sighs. “Humans are so fucking dramatic.”

“And Weres are such dicks,” I reply sweetly.

“Lucky for you, you’re a mix of both.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, desperate to hide how entertained I am. Going by the swirl of amusement in his eyes, he’s perfectly aware.

“Well, this attraction you have for me is clearly beyond your control, so I won’t tell you that I’m flattered. And you seem like a great guy. You’re, um, gainfully employed, and look like you spend lots of time shirtless chopping firewood– ”

“I don’t.”

“No?”

“I’m Were. I produce my own warmth.”

Makes sense. “What I meant is, you’re clearly a catch. But I know very little about you. I have no clue about your age, your last name, your favorite color . . .” I study him. “It’s probably black. It’s black, isn’t it?”

“I’m actually partial to red.”

“Like Human blood?”

He does not deny it.

“Okay. Well. As I said, thank you for your consideration. Unfortunately, I’m not in the position to start a relationship, so I must decline your offer, and– ”

“What offer?”

“The one that you . . .” I frown. Because he did not make an offer.

“This conversation is not an invitation, killer.”

That is . . . true, even though I’m not sure why I’m realizing it just now. Koen is not hitting on me. He’s not trying to cha-cha real smooth into my life. He did not decide that pairing up with me would perfectly round out Lowe and Misery’s nuclear family and allow us to host holiday meals at alternating intervals.

There is no expectation of anything.

But . . . “Why did you want me to know, then?”

“It’s the truth. You should be aware.” He says it matter-of-factly, like real and shared are overlapping constructs.

“And you and the truth are particularly tight?”

He assesses me for a beat. “I’m not going to lie to you, Serena.”

“Well, I’m probably going to lie to you a lot.”

“Yeah?” His smile is almost charmed. “What kind of lies do you tell?”

“All sorts.” I swallow. Glance at my own knees. “But only if it’s for the greater good.”

“You sure?”

Yes. “What about you? Are you sure?”

“Sure of . . . ?”

“How do you know that I’m really your mate?”

“I just do. Trust me on it.”

I do, surprisingly. In fact, I’m less concerned with what he feels, and more with . . . “How can I tell if someone is my mate? I want to know if I feel the same about you.”

He waves the question away. “You don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“If you did, you’d be aware.”

“That’s not true. Maybe the signs are there, but I’m missing them because I’m only half Were.”

“You couldn’t miss them.”

My throat is dry. My stomach, heavy with disappointment. Did I . . . ? No. Come on. I don’t want a mate, whatever that means. My sex drive’s cobwebs have grown their own cobwebs. I’ve always needed bucketloads of time alone. Plus, I’m still figuring out what I am. This isn’t the start of anything.

Except.

“I do feel . . . very safe. Here, with you,” I confess, retreating inward for a moment, groping at my unintelligible body and my tricky mind for clarity. Koen’s presence is cumbersome, and I feel like I’m stuffed too tight by him, but I am experiencing a stunningly quiet moment. No anxiety. No choking dread of what’s to come. “I’m usually . . . Well, it’s been a bit draining, finding out that I’m a hybrid. But right now, I’m not afraid at all.”

“That’s because I’m Alpha. We bring calm and order.”

“But I don’t feel the same with Lowe.”

He quickly discounts it. “Don’t read too much into that. It’s not a sign of anything.”

“But . . .” Why am I even pushing back? He just gave me an out. “Okay. Well, then, since this is clearly one of those unrequited lust situations we, um, all have to deal with sometimes . . .”

“Yes?” He seems amused. Like he knows something I don’t. Shouldn’t he feel despondent and rejected?

“You’re my closest friend’s husb– mate’s closest friend. And I’d love to get along with you. So maybe we could be, you know, friends.”

“What about polite acquaintances?” he counters.

I cannot tell whether he’s serious, so I nod. “Deal. And you may quietly pine after me, if you must.”

He exhales a rough, quiet laugh. It mostly sits around the edges of his eyes, but it envelops me all the same. “Thank you.” He doesn’t seem too devastated. Or maybe he’s just the type to find humor in every situation. It’s what Misery and I used to do whenever things went to shit, which was always: laugh about them. Watch them go to shit even harder. Become hysterical, but in a diverting way.

That’s still who I am. Misery may be settled, overflowing with belonging, but I’m a fucking disaster. “You wouldn’t want me anyway, if it weren’t for the whole biology thing. I’m a mess,” I say, subdued, barely audible.

He hears me, though. “Oh, yeah. You are.”

“Hey.” My chin juts out. “I can say it. You shouldn’t.”

“Serena, you’re a half-Human Were who admits to being a serial liar, doesn’t know how electricity works, and is undoubtedly swimming in complex PTSD. Believe me, a toddler can say it.”

I really want to be indignant, but a laugh snorts out of me all on its own. And then Koen is standing, heading for the door, and there’s once again a weight in my stomach, one that seems to get heavier just because he’s leaving, and heavier still because I’d like him to stay for a second longer.

And then the understanding rolls into me, as inexorable as a little earthquake, that– this is it. The rest of my life. And maybe I could slowly, cautiously, start living it.

“You know,” I say when he opens the door and I’m brusquely reminded that a world exists outside the walls of this room. “I actually think that maybe I could . . .”

He looks at me over his shoulder.

“Just.” My belly feels warm. “You seem . . . Misery and Ana love you, which means that you’re a nice guy. We could maybe, um, try to hang out sometime? Coffee, maybe. Or . . . I’m not sure what you guys do when you go out, but . . . The thing is, I know you very little, but so far, I kind of like you.”

No Hey, I’d love to go on a date with you was ever uttered more clumsily, but it’s okay. Because Koen’s eyes soften with amusement, and indulgence, and maybe some affection, too.

That’s what makes his words feel like a razor-sharp knife sliding between my ribs.

“I meant what I said, killer. This mate thing is about fucking. The part of me that matters isn’t interested in you. Like me, or don’t,” he says kindly. “I really couldn’t care less.”