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She tore him apart and remade him. It took her less than a second.
shitdump?”
Ali, what??
“Bob the Vampyre. Love it.”
shartstain.
Ali, noooooo.
“They say she’s your mate.”
“Is this the way you talk to your beloved mate?” A single eyebrow lifts. “I said you were my mate. Not that I loved you.”
Koen grunts. His head tips back, showing a strong neck and a working throat. “What the fuck have I done to deserve this?” he mutters.
It’s because Lowe feels domesticated, a wise, instinctual voice explains from the recesses of my skull. Lowe can, and will, control and pace himself. Koen is a wild card.
“You are my mate,” he says. With little inflection.
“Is this a, um…terminal diagnosis?” His lips twitch. “No cure, I’m afraid.” “I see.” I clear my throat. “Well, this relationship sure escalated quickly.”
“Does it mean that he likes me?” “Yes,” Lowe says—which perfectly covers Koen’s “No.”
Misery was the Vampyre Collateral, obligated to live among Humans, to be killed if the Vampyres violated the rules of the ceasefire between the two species. I was her companion—an orphan randomly selected to be her friend and make sure that she wouldn’t get too lonely (something no one gave a shit about) or too disruptive (something everyone was scared shitless of). Except that the Randomly Selected Human Orphan turned out to be more like the Purposefully Chosen Human-Were Hybrid Who Needed to Be Kept Under Surveillance by the Vampyres to Prevent the World from Finding Out That Humans and
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“You’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen,” he says simply. Like it’s not a big deal. Like he’s complimenting my taste in socks.
Koen confuses me just by breathing the same air. Koen is so diametrically opposed to the kind of men I prefer, a protractor must be involved.
“You’re my closest friend’s husb—mate’s closest friend. And I’d love to get along with you. So maybe we could be, you know, friends.” “What about polite acquaintances?” he counters. I cannot tell whether he’s serious, so I nod. “Deal. And you may quietly pine after me, if you must.”
jizzmuffin,
No.
jizzmuffin
No.
Jizzmuffin?
NO.
Jizzmuffin
Ali.
“I think you owe me an apology.” “For what?” “The way you stared at my tits.” Silence. Then, instead of the I’m sorry or Go to fucking sleep I expect, he says, “I think you owe me an apology.” “For what?” “How spectacular your tits are.”
Six independent groups of scientists have confirmed that I am “an interspecific cross” (Latin for freak, I believe) and not, as some pundits and social media trolls have decreed, “a grifter making shit up for clout.”
“It’s impossible to say without more data. My hunch would be mutations in the genes that encode for gamete recognition, or regulatory genes. The bottom line is that these mutations made Weres reproductively compatible with Humans.”
The title of our story is An Evil Human Ex-Governor Locked Poor Little Hybrid Me in a Basement Because He Hated Peace. It’s palatable. Easy to understand.
He’s the only person in the building not wearing business attire. I’d say he didn’t get the memo, but knowing Koen, he sent it back with I do whatever the fuck I want scribbled all over it. In blood, most likely.
I spin, ready to politely request that he repeat it to my face, but Koen wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into the hard heat of his body. From the outside, it probably looks like a playful, affectionate gesture. I take it for what it is: a firm command not to kill.
“Is this a threat?” “If you have to ask, I must be doing something wrong.”
shitmuncher.
“Very good. C’mon, Serena.” Koen’s arm wraps around my shoulder. “I need you to make me a sandwich.”
I decide to ignore the question, and ask, “Do you know what a man bun is?” “A what?” “Hmm. Must not have made it to the Weres. I was just wondering whether the lumbersexual vibes were on purpose?”
“rotten cockwomble.”
“For one, they’re not assassins. They want me alive so they can scrape DNA off the inside of my cheek and use it to grow baby werebananas.
“She’s already a bunch of stressors stacked in a trench coat. There are only that many kidnapping and murder attempts a child can endure before developing serious issues and self-destructive behaviors. We wouldn’t want her to grow up and, say, go to grad school.”
I have seen Koen’s wolf form. The glossy black fur that reminds me of his hair. The large paws. That white tuft right on his chest, above the spot where his heart beats.
“You know what else can be therapeutic?” “Punching me in the nuts?” That’s exactly what I was going to say. “How did you know I—”
Not that I’ve ever been one for dramatics, despite Misery’s accusations that I’m “severely unstable” for crying over videos of dogs reuniting with their owners.
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.”
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.
“What is your preferred morning upper?” Amanda asks with a wide smile when I find the kitchen after some wandering. “Coffee? Tea? Methamphetamine?”
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.
So nice, to discover that the dude who’d told me I was his mate was impalement happy. Koen and Lowe are allies, though,
And yet, about two months ago, after hearing my prognosis from Dr. Henshaw, I decided to not return home to Misery right away. Instead, I stopped by Juno’s place. And told her that, at last, I was ready for her to compare my DNA with the available databases, to see if she could find any relative of mine.
She is braiding her hair. Bends her head forward, sectioning the strands and paying no mind to the world around her. Doesn’t notice him lingering at the door. Her bare nape is there for him to stare at, pink and vulnerable and accessible. It’s so flagrantly indecent, he must excuse himself.
Does he? Have a girlfriend? Is that why he was so dismissive, when— “Why do you smell so worried all of a sudden?” he asks, ushering me inside.
“Does it not bother your back, Koen?” “You mean, the supermassive weight of my ego? No, it does not.”
“When did the pack split?” “Forty years ago. Little less.”
“Why?” “A disagreement between the former Alpha and the Assembly. The huddles separated and became self-governing. The Alpha remained in control of the core. The five huddles made for about half of the population, so it was an even split.”
“I wouldn’t have wished this on him.” “This?” I choke out. “You.”
cumduck
The note, unsigned, simply says, From your mother. Underneath there is a silver necklace: a moon scratched by four claw marks.
“Squirrels have it coming. Smug little shits,” he grumbles.
