Mate (Bride, #2) (46)

“Do you always have guests sitting on the floor?” I ask him when he walks up to me, handing him a bowl of scraps. “And could you take this out? For Twinkles.”

“For who, now?”

“The wolf dog I met this morning. I sent Ana a picture and she picked a name for him.”

Koen crosses his arms, refusing the bowl. “What about a feral mutt covered in mud screamed Twinkles to her?”

“I believe she decided that he’s Sparkles’s long-lost brother, and she’s committed to the theme. Elle, since Koen won’t, will you put this on the porch?” I smile at the girl, who looks like a very badass kindergarten teacher. “Thank you so much.”

“Did you cook for my seconds?” Koen sounds less than enthused.

“Yeah. Isn’t that why you brought me here? To keep your home?” His face has me snorting out a laugh.

“I tried to stop her,” Amanda says, joining us. “But I couldn’t.”

Koen glares at her. “You were unable to physically prevent a hybrid half your size from producing a vat of homemade marinara sauce.”

“Well, the thing is . . . she’s kind of a good cook.”

“Aw, thank you. Want another helping?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s on the stove.”

“Nice. By the way, boss, what did the Humans say? Anything useful?”

Koen shakes his head as Amanda disappears past him with a soft

“Bummer.” He and I are left alone in the middle of the crowded room, and I go back to chopping veggies for my stir-fry.

“Serena.”

“Hmm?”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s this chicken dish that— ”

“Why?”

“You’re the one who invited over some of your seconds so I could meet them— without warning me beforehand, by the way. Thank God for Amanda.”

“I invited them because I wanted you to know who these twatwaffles are in case you need something from them— not to play house and entertain them.”

“But they were hungry. And I love to cook. And I never get to do it for anyone.” It’s always been a bit of a pipe dream of mine. Showing off my culinary chops. Feeding others. I enjoyed food a lot, before, and became good at preparing it, but never got to do much with those skills.

In my ideal, remarkably unremarkable future that will never be, I’d go to a job I love, come home, make dinner for someone whose face was in my head and heart all day long, and spend the rest of the night watching boring TV shows with them. Of course it’ll never happen, and it sounds so basic, I’m almost sure that if I had a chance to play in that particular sandbox, I’d grow bored of it in two weeks.

But maybe I wouldn’t? Mundane things can feel so exotic when your entire life has been one plot twist after another.

“Really, I don’t mind. Would you like a plate of— ”

“No,” he barks. But more people are trickling in, and he’s too busy telling them that “Serena doesn’t want to see your sad, wrinkly scrotum,

and neither do I, so stop being a turd and put on some goddamn clothes” to spend time in the kitchen.

“It’s a Human thing,” Colin explains to every newcomer. “They have cloacas.”

I smile and work on my fruit salad.

“Koen has a lot of seconds,” I tell Jorma half an hour later, on the porch.

There are over twenty people milling around, and someone explained to me several live too far away to show up.

“Not everyone here is a second. Some brought their relatives. That girl over there? Elle’s partner. And that’s Brenna’s brother. The woman and the twin toddlers? Pavel’s family.”

“Disappointing.”

“Why?”

“Was hoping the babies would be involved in pack leadership.”

Jorma looks at me like the concept of humor slashed his tires and shat in his rose bed, but it’s pleasant, being with a group with this level of camaraderie. There’s obvious affection going around, the kind that reminds me of my relationship with Misery: people who grew up together and went through shit. It’s etched in their omnipresent scars, the lines on their foreheads, the crinkles at the sides of their eyes when they smile.

There’s always someone around Koen. He trusts me enough to not be my shadow, but every few minutes I feel his inquisitive, lingering looks.

Everything okay? I reassure him with a nod, but I still struggle with streams of information too intense to filter quickly, and slip to the back of the house for a breather.

“. . .is he doing?” I overhear someone asking, and immediately stop in my tracks. The sun has set, and a gentle sea breeze rustles through the trees.

“Same old.” It’s Saul’s voice.

“Highly doubt it.”

“Oh, yeah, he is so fucking . . .” Laughter. “Gone. She killed him, and now she’s haunting him. But he’s not going to admit it. Or make it her problem.”

“Does she know?”

“Never will. So . . . same old.”

“That’s rough. And the Favored shit?”

“We’ve been looking into it. It’s not too unlikely.”