Mate (Bride, #2) (102)

Confusing, all of this. I busy myself and crouch down to pick up the phone. The screen is cracked, but the other pieces easily fit back together.

“Here. Wanna call them back?”

“It was Lowe. I’ll text later. Say that you tackled me.”

“Credible. Did you tell him I was missing?”

“And promptly regretted it. The Vampyre called for updates every ten minutes.”

“Did you give her your number, or did she just help herself to it?”

“The latter.”

Unsurprising. I look down at my toes. Study them for a minute. “Can I ask you not to tell her about this?” I make a vaguely neurochemical-imbalance-shaped gesture. “She’d never let me live this down.”

Koen crosses his arms, stern. “I doubt someone who’s regularly having interspecies sex has a single toe to stand on. Besides, she rarely needs to ask to find out shit.”

He’s right. I just feel so . . . exposed. Wrung out.

“Why are you so ashamed of this, Serena?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“I don’t know.” I snort out a laugh. “Maybe it’s just easier to worry about what people are thinking than about . . . about the real shit.”

“Such as?”

“That my father killed your parents. And you killed mine.”

I can’t believe it all fits in exactly ten words. Our pasts, woven together.

One— no, four more reasons we could never work. As though we needed them. They come with a garbled mess of questions that I haven’t even begun to wrangle free. Do I resent him? Does he hate me? Am I angry?

How much of this is his fault? Should I carry my parents’ sins? Can I forgive? Can he? Is there anything to forgive here?

He’s just as stumped. Fiddling with these impossible thoughts. Gives me a stuck, resigned look and says, “Couple goals, am I right?”

I laugh. The low, rolling sound that slips out of him could be laughter, too. We regard each other like that, no judgment, no fear of being judged. I could live in this weird limbo for the next century.

“I would do it all over again,” he murmurs at last, eyes never letting go of mine. “Even knowing what it did to you. And for that, I’m sorrier than I’ll ever be.”

We are not Human.

His pain squeezes my chest. “I don’t want you to . . . If when you look at me you see Constantine, I don’t want you to— ”

“Serena.” He shakes his head. “When I say that I would do it all over again, I also mean that I would go through what he did all over again. If it brought me to you.”

It’s a lovely thought: that the mistakes of our parents could have as little impact on our relationship as a butterfly flapping its wings. That us is a choice we can make. That we might not be constantly running out of time.

Too lovely, maybe.

I lift my fists. “Right or left?”

He snorts. “Fuck this losing game.”

“Do you really want to renounce one of two prizes, both of inestimable cash value— ”

He takes my left fist, gently peels my fingers back, and holds my eyes as he brings my palm to his mouth and—

“Ouch.”

“It’s what you get.” His lips brush against the soft bite he left there. I try not to shiver as he slides lower, to the mark on my inner wrist. His eyes do odd things as he inhales deeply.

“Killer,” he murmurs. “You smell . . .”

“Good? Bad? Musty? Like beignet?”

He lets go of my arm. Runs his tongue over his teeth. “Close. You smell close.”

I feel close, too. “You chose left. Therefore, you get a premium— ”

“Cut the crap.”

“Fine. I’m going to show you something. Come.”

He follows me to my bedroom, but when my hand wraps around the doorknob, he grips my wrist to stop me.

“Give me a second,” he orders. Trancelike. Foggy.

“I— Why?”

“Your scent is really intense here.” It takes him a little more than a second, but he does get himself under control. Ushering him inside feels like an epoch-making moment, which might be dumb of me. We’re not co-signing a mortgage. I’m not even asking him to be my emergency contact for spinning class. The way I hold my breath doesn’t make sense.

And yet here I am. Wringing my hands as some guy looks at the weird, fort-like structure of pillows, blankets, comforters. Everything is plush, knit, soft. Last night I moved the bed into the alcove by the window, and above it I strung the fairy lights Ana must have left months ago. They tinge the place a warm, blurry yellow, much better than the unforgiving ceiling lamp. Also: they make the numerous items of Koen’s clothing I’ve pilfered harder to spot.

“Remember when Layla mentioned nests?” My voice trembles. “I’ve been working on this for a while. Honestly, I’m just relieved that this new penchant of mine for acquiring shit is just a phase. And . . .” I notice that the placement of the lavender velvet pillow is off. “Sorry, this is a bit . . .” I

move closer. Rearrange it over and over until it’s just right. Deal with a domino-like cascade of imperfections that need to be fixed right now. A minute— or seventeen— later, a moment of clarity smashes into me. I look back at Koen. “Am I being absolutely insane?”