Mate (Bride, #2) (51)

It’s . . . a lot.

In the harsh morning light, I stare down at the drenched mess of his bed.

I wobble on my feet, strip the cotton sheets off the mattress, and realize that it soaked through. It’s sweat. A lot of sweat. Just spent one hour on the treadmill sweat. My scent is thick, pungent, vaguely reminiscent of things I’d rather not acknowledge.

And it saturates every inch of his bed.

This is an invasion of Koen’s private space.

It’s desecrating.

Small mercy is, Koen spent the night outside. I beg the god of physiologically dysregulated bitches with sleep disorders to keep him away for ten more minutes. I stuff his bedding, then mine, in the laundry machine. Setting: bulky items. Then I clean his room, trying to force it to smell . . . like not me, but also like a deranged person didn’t just pour disinfectant all over— a fine, impossible-to- strike balance.

I speed through my shower, rehearsing what I’ll tell Koen if he calls me out on this new sanitizing facet of my personality. Why did I wash your sheets? Because I’m a wonderful houseguest. Would you like a complimentary glass of limoncello? I get dressed in my new clothes, but something feels . . . wrong. On my way out, I have an idea— one that no sane person would entertain, but that’s no longer my side of the Venn diagram. I slip back inside Koen’s room, steal one of his T-shirts, hastily put it on under my sweater.

And exhale in relief.

It’s as though my fur was being brushed against the grain, but this five-dollar shirt smoothed it back down where it belongs. No, I won’t be pondering the matter at this moment.

I walk to the back porch and find Amanda wearing a long parka and nothing else. “Oh my God .” She lights up when I hand her a mug of coffee.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Patrolling around me.”

“Are you kidding? I get to chill in wolf form. Pay attention to forest noises. Growl at the squirrels. It’s everyone’s favorite kind of duty. Well, except for Jorma. But that’s because he’s thirsty for spreadsheets.”

I take a seat and follow her gaze to the group of wolves a couple hundred feet ahead of us. They sit on their hind legs, observing the spectacle— which happens to be a fight.

Which happens to involve Koen.

I stare at his wolf form. The double-layered coat. His muscular frame.

His terrifying maw. I guess I have one, too, but I haven’t seen it in a while.

Nor am I currently wrapping it around the bare throat of a fellow Were, like it’s an oven-roasted turkey leg.

The smaller reddish-brown wolf lets out a whimpering, submissive sound. When Koen releases her, she briefly rolls on her back to show her soft belly. Then, after an affectionate nip from her Alpha, she trots toward the rest of the group, and a new fighter takes her place. I spot Twinkles among them. He looks very excited to be in the thick of the action, if comically smaller than the Weres surrounding him. Still, Ana will be pleased to hear that he’s keeping busy.

“Is that . . . normal?” I ask.

“Mm?”

“That’s not the challenge, right? The one that determines the new Alpha?”

She spits out a mouthful of coffee. “Serena, they are play-fighting.”

“Okay. Just making sure.”

“It’s to blow off steam.” Amanda brushes liquid off her coat. “You see how the bites are softer? The ears are relaxed. Tail’s neutral. It’ll become easier to recognize as you spend more time in wolf form.”

It won’t, but I smile and nod anyway.

“Play-fight is an honored Were pastime.”

“I guess not everyone has the knees for pickleball.”

She laughs. “I’ll teach you. And Koen, he’s fun to spar with. He’s strong, but his self-control is ironclad— ”

She cuts off as a ruckus rises. We turn just in time to see Koen ramming his head into the flank of a newcomer. He gets in a few bruising hits, then pins the dark gray wolf to the ground with enough pressure to suffocate and stops only when he whines in pain.

Amanda clears her throat. “Maybe Koen’s not the best option just now.

Things are . . . a lot.”

“Is something happening? Is it that meeting with the huddle leaders you mentioned?”

“No. Well, yes. But that is . . . It might be nothing. We’re still hoping . .

.” She scrunches her nose. “Actually, this one might have to do with you.”

“With me?”

“Well, he’s living under the same roof as his mate. He’s around you a lot, and I think he . . . he feels it. If you know what I mean.”

I don’t, really— until I do. And no longer want to intake air.

“He . . . ?” I can’t bring myself to continue.

“He’s horny as fuck,” Amanda says, taking pity on me. “At the mercy of his own lustful concupiscence. Probably jerks off every three hours. I assume you were about to say that?”

I was not. In fact, I was thinking about last night, about his hands on me, and wondering, If Koen wants to . . . If Koen wants to, with me, then why not?

The question builds a hazy, thick heat in my head, a delicious drip that coalesces into a new idea. It hammers an achy place at the bottom of my stomach. If not getting laid affects Koen to this degree, if he’s shifting into