Mate (Bride, #2) (55)

Plus, I’m busy hiding the flannel behind my back. Which seems to accomplish very little, given the way Koen’s nostrils flare. I’m suddenly seized by terror: Can he smell the remnants of my sweatfest?

Clearly, yes. Because he goes rigid as a statue and asks, “What is it?”

The words sound a bit like a growl, as though they’re coming from deep within his body.

“Nothing.” I swallow. Smile to soften the lie. “Just, my pj’s. I need to wash them.”

His eyes darken. Panic prickles up my spine.

“I’ll be right back. Give me a sec,” I plead, turning around and starting down the hallway as fast as I can.

“Serena.” His voice is so harsh, my entire body clenches.

I freeze in place. After a long moment, turn around. “W-what?”

“Don’t run.”

I swallow thickly. “I . . . Why?”

“Walk slowly to the washing machine and get rid of the clothes.” His voice pins me to the ground. Something builds in my belly. “Do not make me chase after you.”

I have no idea why he’s asking that from me, but I do as he commands: calmly make my way down the hallway until I’m in the mudroom, watching the flannel sink into a pool of soapy water. I take a deep breath before heading back, but when I return, Koen is right where I left him, clearly unwilling or unable to move.

Neither of us mentions the exchange that just occurred— a silent, shared agreement to pretend that nothing happened. Instead, I grab the coffee from the counter and hand it to him until he accepts it with a muted grunt. His eyes don’t leave mine until he tips his head back to drink.

I can’t help staring at the bob of his Adam’s apple through his unshaven neck. The breadth of his body, muscles working under scarred, imperfect skin. The thick outline of him. His shoulders and back strain when he sees me watching; they don’t relax even as I smile.

It’s focus stealing, the way he looks. But most Weres are built this way, and the reason I can’t tear my eyes away from this one has more to do with the fact that . . .

He’s Koen.

He manages entire conversations in low growls. He can tell that I’m about to make fun of him before I’ve even formulated the joke in my head.

He disturbs the space that surrounds him, and mine with it. And his eyes are always searching mine, shaping me, trying to make sure I’m okay, and never asking anything of me.

I remember the disjointed, vague images I keep seeing in my dreams.

Feel the same liquid, low-pooling heat. Wonder how many fucking civil, criminal, moral, maritime laws I would break if I were to go and wrap my arms around him. Maybe say, Your tits are pretty spectacular, too.

“What?” he asks when I snort out a laugh, and I shake my head.

“How many packmates have you slaughtered on this fine morning?”

He mutters something about “whiny little shits,” and I try not to laugh.

“I made French toast. Want some?”

“I’m good.”

He didn’t eat any of the food I made last night, either. It stings, and I don’t know why.

“Where did Amanda go?” he asks.

“Just left. Sorry you missed her.”

“I’m not. I’m packmated out for the day.”

“It’s eight thirty in the morning, Koen.”

Your point? his look clearly asks. “Go get dressed,” he orders. “We’re going somewhere.”

I take a deep breath. Think about all the cruel little things he told me to push me away. About the big thing he neglected to tell me, the one that best explains the distance he’s been keeping. “Actually, we’re not. We’re staying in for a bit. And.” I glance at his shoulders. His biceps. The V of his stomach. “For what I have in mind, it’s better if you don’t get dressed.”





CHAPTER 17

The covenant was never a big part of his life. He would forget about it for months, even years. It never felt like a sacrifice, just a simple trade-off, an integral feature of who he was: the Alpha of the Northwest.

Then she arrived, assumed total control of him, and left no room for anything but her.

DON’T BE NERVOUS.”

“I’m not.”

“Koen. I know it’s been a while for you.”

“Just fucking get it over with.”

“What? No, that’s not how you do it. This is an experience.”

“Then make it a quick experience.”

“Why are you being like this? I’ll be gentle. Am I not gentle?”

“You mispronounced ‘annoying.’ ”

“Oh, come on. I’m having fun.”

“I wish I could say the feeling is mutual.”

“Should we put down a sheet or something? You’re making way more of a mess than I thought you would. Though I guess it’s normal, since it’s been so long.”

“If anyone’s making a mess, it’s you.”

“Hush. I’m doing this for you. The entire pack thinks you’re hopeless, but I’ll help you show them that— ”

The door bursts open, and Koen and I fall silent mid-haircut.

It’s very poor timing. I’m almost done with what will surely be known, postmortem, as Serena Paris’s most challenging and powerful artistic endeavor, but two women and a man are rudely letting themselves inside and interrupting my creative process.