Mate (Bride, #2) (22)

“Oh.”

“I know. Highly disturbing that Weres are allowed to advance to such a ramshackle state.”

“That’s not what I— ”

“But rest assured, killer, that I am not so enfeebled that I won’t tie you up in my basement if you endanger yourself.”

The thing about Koen: He is an asshole, but a reasonable one. Which means that the more unhinged his threats become, the less believable they sound. And the stronger my impulse to just laugh in his face. “But what about the martyr character arc I’ve always wanted?”

“Not on my watch. Not in my territory. Not under my protection.”

I shift higher on my knees to gain a few inches. It brings our noses in touching range. “Koen, you know it’s a good idea.”

“If by good idea you mean bullshit. The problem with your plan, and I’m using that word generously, is that you do not have the resources to pull it off.”

“Then help me.” I try to wrap my hand around his wrist, but my fingers don’t meet. “You care about Ana just as much as I do. What if— what if I stay in the Northwest? Where’s your Den? Olympia? Take me there. Parade me around. We’ll make it so easy for the Vampyres to find me, they won’t even investigate Ana’s whereabouts. They’ll come for me, your patrols will capture them, and Owen will gain control of the council. Please. At least consider it.”

He straightens abruptly, freeing himself from my grip with no effort. A small shudder licks up my spine, and the way he looked at me earlier, the weight of his eyes on my bared body, it all flashes through me like a bolt.

For a moment I am— I don’t know. Eager. Uneasy. Heated. Full. Empty.

Heavy. Good, but bad. I don’t know.

I don’t know what I am or how I feel, because my stupid body isn’t mine anymore, and there seems to be no one like me in the whole damn world.

“You need food,” he says, heading for the door. “I’ll have Saul bring you something.”

My stomach rolls in vehement, impolite denial. “I’m not hungry.”

Koen folds his arms. Inspects me like he has a medical degree and I’m at my yearly checkup. “You’re not thirsty, either. Unusual, for a Were.”

“I’m only half Were.”

“You are.” It’s disquieting, frankly. The way he sees through the layers of bullcrap I painstakingly apply to my skin every day. “Maybe we could hunt together. Find some game. Fill that belly of yours.” His eyes lower to my stomach, and I’m suddenly hot.

“I told you. I can’t shift right now.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot that you’re . . . not very powerful.” He says it— not very powerful— in a deep, rumbly voice, making it clear that he thinks I’m a load of dung posing as a person. “Moon too small?”

I nod.

“Can’t wait for the full moon, then. I’d love to see your wolf form.” He says it suggestively, but not in the try-hard way of a third date dropping hints that they’ve been wondering about the view from my apartment. This is a purely intellectual pursuit on his part: I’d love to read that article on micro-dosing. I’d love to snorkel in the coral reef, if the opportunity were to arise. I’d love to catch you in a lie. Still, something twisted in my brain registers it as inappropriate and dirty and disturbing and glorious and . . .

I have seen Koen’s wolf form. The glossy black fur that reminds me of his hair. The large paws. That white tuft right on his chest, above the spot where his heart beats. The size of him. He is very much Koen at a level I cannot put in words. He could be standing next to a dozen identical animals, and I’d still be able to single him out.

God, am I about to use the word aura?

“In the meantime, I’ll have Saul bring you food. Since you look so gaunt.”

“I do not.”

“Right. Picture of health.”

I grin. “No need to mince your words. Just say that I’m fugly, call it a day, and— ”

“Serena,” he growls. His stare, the dull black of his eyes, is abrasive.

Sands me down to the skeleton. “Sleep. When you wake up, I’m taking you back to the Southwest.”

“What?” No. No. That’s where Ana is. “Please, don’t. Just think about it

— ”

“If you keep lying to me, I can’t properly protect you. And if I can’t protect you, I won’t keep you around.”

“I’m not— Which lie?”

He snorts softly. “You tell that many?”

“I . . .” I fidget with the sleeve of my hoodie. “I lie a lot.”

“You shouldn’t. Telling the truth can be therapeutic.”

I narrow my eyes. “You know what else can be therapeutic?”

“Punching me in the nuts?”

That’s exactly what I was going to say. “How did you know I— ”

“You’re pretty fucking predictable.” He’s leaving again, and I hate him.

So much. Especially when I have no choice but to yell after him, “Fine.”

He doesn’t stop.

“I’ll tell the truth.”

Keeps walking.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to admit it.