Mate (Bride, #2) (24)
“Well, that’s too bad. Because I don’t want you to feel safe.”
“You . . . don’t?”
Glaring, he leans toward me, full of something vicious that I cannot name. “I want you to be scared shitless, Serena. I want you so fucking terrified of me, you won’t even dream of not doing what I say. I want you to feel like your soft little throat is in my hands, and I want you to be so afraid that I’ll tear into it that when I tell you to do something for your own fucking safety, you won’t consider saying anything but ‘Yes, Alpha.’ ”
The last words are hissed just inches from my face, the puff of his breath hot against my cheek, and the thing is— he is terrifying. He could carve me open like an overripe pomegranate. And he’s definitely capable of forcing me to do whatever he wants. I’ve seen the way even his seconds look at him, love and trust and respect mixed with circumspection. I’ve heard Lowe and Misery whisper their worries. I am aware that there is an edge of unpredictability to Koen.
And yet the only response I can muster to his threats is a small, apologetic smile.
He didn’t ask for me to be his mate. I didn’t ask to be a hybrid. And yet here we both are.
I cannot help myself. I lift my hand, and with the backs of my fingers I stroke the skin of his cheek. It’s the lightest touch, barely anything. But it sends currents trembling down my arm, clamoring for more.
Koen’s muscles tense, and he flinches from my touch. With a roll of his eyes, he unfolds away from me, and cold seeps back into my bones.
“You’re such a fucking nuisance,” he murmurs, almost softly.
“I know.” I press my lips together. “Thank you again for— ”
“Serena.”
“I know, but I have to say it, and— ”
“Just mulch Saul’s rose beds, and we can be even.” He spins on his heel.
Is he leaving?
“Are you going to bed?” I ask after him.
“After I’m done.” He doesn’t specify with what.
“Where will you be sleeping?”
“There are half a dozen beds in this cabin.”
What a nonanswer. And on top of thank you, he must also not be big into good night, because he opens the door and—
“Koen?”
He stops. Turns to me with an expression that’s equally patient, insulting, and dismissive. The quintessential Alpha has shit to do look.
“Just . . .” I swallow. “The mate thing.”
His face doesn’t move a millimeter. His biological predestination to want sex with me seems to interest him less than the favorite yogurt flavor of the fifteen-to- twenty-one demographic.
“The rest of your pack, do they know?”
He shrugs, one shouldered. Truly, he does not give a shit about the stuff I spend my nights overthinking. “Everyone does.”
“You didn’t . . . It’s not a secret?”
“We made sure every Were knew, Serena.”
“Oh. Why?”
“No sane Were will touch you if they think you’re important to me.”
If they think.
I scratch the back of my head. “Do they think we . . . ?”
“No. We made that clear, too.”
“So they know that I’m your mate but we’re not together?”
“Correct.”
“And doesn’t it bother you?”
“Why would it?”
“I don’t know. Just . . . big bad Alpha. Everyone’s boss. I thought you might want to . . .”
“Spare myself the humiliation of having been rejected?” He huffs a laugh. “Serena, there are much worse things than that.”
Are there? I’m not so sure. The good and the bad of my life correlate strongly with feelings of being wanted— or not. But Koen is not a Human orphan, let alone one whose claim to fame is being useless in therapy because of an overgrown case of infantile amnesia.
Like me, or don’t. I really couldn’t care less.
God, how many times do I have to make him tell me before I turn it into a long-term memory? “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked. I’m just tired.”
“Right. If only you had a bed to sleep in.”
His sarcasm is a jolt of electricity. “I hate you,” I say mildly.
“You need me to check the closet for monsters?”
“Nope.” I already know where those are.
“Glass of water? Brush your hair one hundred strokes? The fucking chamber pot?”
I let out a small laugh and shake my head, and before I can force my
“Good night” upon him, Koen is gone.
My heart feels cavern hollow. I ignore it, spend five minutes punching my pillows into shape, and fall into a deep sleep.
IT STARTS LIKE IT ALWAYS DOES. THAT IS TO SAY, NICELY ENOUGH.
I wonder how universal a truth it is that the closer to the end we get, the more mundane our oneiric activities become. Mine used to be ridiculous, equally fun and horrifying, but lately they’re about only one thing: sex.
It just seems so . . . unambitious. I could be dreaming of castles, or deer with Jell-O antlers, or pizza pies in the sky. Instead, it’s all work-rough palms wrapped around my kneecap, and bare, sweat-slick skin. Outdoor scents. Sticky, dripping, hazy warmth. Bites into unyielding muscles.