Mate (Bride, #2) (27)

For the past decade, I’ve refused to let my circumstances define me. Fuck being an orphan, or poor, or the Collateral’s lady-in- waiting. Fuck being a victim. Fuck navel-gazing and wallowing in my wretchedness.

And then I met Ana. Who’s an orphan and a hybrid. She’s every thing that I used to be. And the compassion I’ve never been able to extend to myself overflows whenever I think about her.

Whoever intends to hurt her will have to crawl over my cold, rotting corpse. Literally, perhaps.

“Mine is a Were illness and likely has nothing to do with me being hybrid,” I tell the doctor. “But my medical history might help, if Ana ever runs into issues, and— I did tell you that I’m happy to donate my body, right? Make sure you, um, dissect me, and all. To learn.”

“Serena.” Dr. Henshaw’s light eyes search mine. “You should not forgo palliative care.”

“If the pain gets too bad, I’ll come back to you. But you know I’ve been surveilled my entire life, all because of my biology. Something that happened before I was even born has dictated the last two decades of my life, and . . . I think, if you try to wrap your head around it, you might be able to understand that I’d rather not spend the last months of my life being poked and prodded. I just want to be, for once.”

“Don’t you want to spend time with your sister?”

“Not if this illness turns me into a different person. Misery and I were alone for so long. A year or so ago, when I realized that something was wrong with me, I was terrified that if I disappeared, it would destroy her.

And the thing is . . . it will, when it happens. But she has people that’ll help her pick up the pieces now.” I smile. It’s heartfelt. “That’s the biggest gift I could ask for.”

I wrap my hand around the door handle, ready to leave, when Dr.

Henshaw asks, “What about the Northwest Alpha?”

A beat. “What about him?”

“Are you not his mate?”

I look at him over my shoulder. “He won’t care. It’s just— it’s only hormones. Sex.”

The doctor cocks his head. “I highly doubt that’s true.”

“Koen’s a grown man. I— ” I blink, feeling a burst of anger. I cannot worry about Koen. I need to make sure that Misery and Ana are safe and taken care of, and . . . Does Dr. Henshaw not get it? “He can handle wanting to fuck someone and being told no,” I say, voice acid with worry and something that feels too much like regret. “If he can’t, that’s his problem.”

I walk out, pretending not to hear Dr. Henshaw tell me that if that’s the impression I’m under, either I was lied to, or I’m lying to myself.





CHAPTER 9

Jerzy’s only question is, “Are you sure?”

He shakes his head, because no, of course he isn’t.

“I hope I’m wrong about her.”

“And if you aren’t?” Karolina asks.

It changes nothing.

Present day

IN THE AFTERNOON, I HOBBLE DOWNSTAIRS WEARING A THICK sweater and rolled-up sweats that belong to someone much more vertically gifted than me. My headache pounds through the roof of my mouth. I feel thoroughly banged up. Whether it’s from playing hide-and-seek with Bob the Vamp, from sleeping in a bed of ceramic, or from the simple curse of living in my unpredictable sack of meat, I have no clue.

Look at me. Spoiled for choice.

“What is your preferred morning upper?” Amanda asks with a wide smile when I find the kitchen after some wandering. “Coffee? Tea?

Methamphetamine?”

I lift my eyebrows. “Is that a common breakfast option in Were B and Bs?”

“I could synthesize some real quick.”

She’s joking, I think. Not sure. Faced with proof of the existence of stuff like biologically mandated mates, and hybrids, and the legality of child beauty pageants, it’s hard to discount . . . anything. I’m a single internet rabbit hole away from becoming a Hollow Earther. “I’m good, thanks.

Trying to avoid stimulants. Where did Koen go?” I woke up deeply aware that he wasn’t around— not in the house, not roaming the woods outside, not anywhere nearby. I’d say GPS tracking is a Were superpower, but mine doesn’t extend to anyone but him.

“Off having a chat with a few of the huddle leaders.”

“Aren’t you a huddle leader?”

“Me? Oh, because I’m a second? Nope. But that’s how it works in Lowe’s pack, right?”

“I think so, yeah.” I take a seat and hug my legs to my chest. The temperature is chilly, though one wouldn’t be able to guess from Amanda’s shorts and tank top. Clearly one of us is a real Were. World’s easiest find the intruder. “How do you guys do things?” I ask, then rush to add, “If you’re allowed to tell me.”

“Of course I am. You’re one of us.” She reaches across the table, briefly covering my hand with hers. Her flesh against mine feels so intensely wrong, it’s all I can do not to free myself in repulsion— a totally appropriate reaction to a kind gesture. I’ve never been particularly physical, but this hormonal stuff is making me as avoidant as Misery. “Our pack is divided into geography-based huddles, just like the Southwest. But being a huddle leader doesn’t translate to becoming one of Koen’s seconds.”