Mate (Bride, #2) (41)
Eating, for instance. Not sleeping on park benches. Paying taxes that financed my very own surveillance. How very full circle of me.
“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” I declare, and Koen’s self-congratulatory smile has me shaking my head with laughter. “You know you have no reason to look so smug, right? It’s not your coast.”
“It is my territory.”
“Sure, but it’s not like you built that offshore rock formation over there.”
“As far as you know. And you might want to stop contradicting me in the heart of my region, where my every word is law.”
“All I’m saying is, you can’t take credit for it.”
He gives me a flat look. “I can tie you to an anvil and throw you from that cliff, though. And no one will ever know.”
I chuckle, wondering how many of these threats he follows through with. “It’s not the huge compliment you’re making it out to be.” I lean into the back seat to pilfer Koen’s zip-up hoodie. He doesn’t need it, because he has furnace genes. I’ll repossess it. Use it as a blanket. “I’ve only ever been in the Southwest. We’re working out of a pool of two.”
“At least you like mine better than Lowe’s.”
“We’re still talking about the landscapes, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I laugh again, and we roll into a place that looks like the quaint seaside towns I sometimes see in movies, the ones where fiscally conservative people go for weekends of antiquing, dinner parties, and discreet cheating on their spouses. “Where are we?”
“A bit outside the Den. A friend of mine owns a store here.”
“Look at you guys. Having stores.”
He pulls the hand brake. “And indoor plumbing. And statistics.”
“And sarcasm?”
“You catch up quickly. Come on.”
There’s a decent amount of foot traffic: shoppers, children playing on swings, and, of course, several Weres in wolf form. They lounge under trees, perch on branches, lie next to the statue of a book in front of a local library. They acknowledge their Alpha and then study me with a sleepy, lazy sort of curiosity.
“Hi.” I wave my hand in the direction of a group huddling in a nearby pocket park. They blink in response. I instinctively recognize it as a friendly greeting.
I guess standing next to their Alpha goes a long way.
“Should I go introduce myself?” I whisper at Koen. “Is that part of the hybrid parade?”
He snorts. His palm finds the middle of my back and pushes me toward a sidewalk.
“Wouldn’t it be the polite thing to do?” I truly don’t know. When I was with the Southwest, I didn’t exactly socialize. I holed myself up in Misery’s house, let Ana braid and unbraid my hair upwards of forty times a day, and retreated into my room whenever someone new would visit.
“Killer, you’re proof of concept that Humans and Weres can fuck—
fruitfully so. Not only are you the most recognizable face on the continent, but there’ll be a photo of you in every time capsule shot into space for the coming century. You’re good without introductions for the next couple of years.” He opens a door and signals for me to go ahead. “Come on. Let’s get you some clothes.”
I do need them, considering the rate at which I’m stealing his. But. “Do you know how I can access my bank?”
His hand slides up, between my shoulder blades, and guides me inside.
He doesn’t reply.
“I do have some money,” I insist.
“You do? No need to flex, Serena.”
“I mean, I just need to— ”
“This conversation is very tedious.” He sounds distracted as he glances around.
“Well, prepare to be tedioused even more. You’re not going to pay for my stuff. It’s infantilizing.”
His dark eyes travel down my body. Slowly. “As if I could ever do that,”
he drawls.
My cheeks burst into flames. The rest of me, too. His gaze doesn’t let go of me. I’m about to blurt out something supremely stupid, when: “Koen, you’re early! A first.”
Our heads whip around as the most elegant man to ever walk this wretched globe emerges from the back. I admire his wing tips, the perfect tan of his skin, the bounce of his gravity-defying tawny forelock. I used to be handy with a can of hair spray, back when I had a job that required personal hygiene, but boy, do I have a lot to learn from this dude.
The two men exchange one of those almost-hug handshakes. “Serena, this is Carter. Carter, Serena, who we won’t bother pretending requires introductions, needs something to wear that fits her.”
“Does she?” He gives me the once-over. Purses his chiseled mouth.
“She seems to like your flannel.”
Koen’s grunt is unintelligible. I attempt a smile, but it comes out tense
— which he notices. “You’re not afraid, are you.”
It’s not really a question, and I decide to be truthful. “Just intimidated by how sophisticated Carter looks.” It doesn’t help that my pants are Koen’s sweats rolled up about five times, giving me an exquisite toddler wearing life buoy at the pool je ne sais quoi.
“You can handle it,” Koen says. His hand slides under the collar of my flannel, between the layers of fabric that rest on my neck. All heat, no skin-to- skin contact. He squeezes me with something that could be reassurance, or a threat of strangulation. “Since you’ve had so much exposure to my good looks.”