Mate (Bride, #2)

by Ali Hazelwood

She tore him apart and remade him. It took her less than a second.

“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.”

It involves Ana being bubbly, Misery pretending not to adore her, and Lowe pretending not to be awestruck by Misery’s inability to successfully hide her adoration. It’s cute, and it deserves some privacy.

“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.”

His laugh is a deep, warm chuckle that makes my heart stumble.

“You’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen,” he says simply.

“Humans are so fucking dramatic.” “And Weres are such dicks,” I reply sweetly. “Lucky for you, you’re a mix of both.”

She expects little and is not easily offended. It makes pushing her away frustratingly hard.

Big Bad Murderous Wolf in Charge of Thousands Cannot Handle Girl Crying. What a headline.

“Koen?” I’m almost fully asleep, my lids too heavy to open. “Yeah?” “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.”

His seconds like her, they have from the very start. Traitors.

“I’m simply going to lock you up, killer. If I have to chain you to my fucking bed to keep you alive, I will not hesitate.”

“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—” “You’re pretty fucking predictable.”

“I’m an equal opportunity liar.

“I want you to be scared shitless, Serena. I want you so fucking terrified of me, you won’t even dream of not doing what I say. I want you to feel like your soft little throat is in my hands, and I want you to be so afraid that I’ll tear into it that when I tell you to do something for your own fucking safety, you won’t consider saying anything but ‘Yes, Alpha.’ ”

He may have just threatened to macerate me, but at least he’s funny about it.

“Must be nice,” I muse. “What?” “Being you. Knowing everything.” “It is, yeah,” he agrees.

“What? You don’t believe that a family can be a girl and her pink stuffed penguin?” “I emphatically do not.” “You’re so bigoted.” “Glad you finally noticed.”

As much as I’d love to stab him, his scent is safe and warm, as shrouding and all-consuming as the Douglas fir.

A smile pulls at the edge of his mouth—and then mine. We share a long look, equally frustrated and amused by each other. A weird string strains between us, tugging at me, reminding me that I like him, I liked him from the start, I don’t want to fight with him.

It’s Misery’s fault if I have a thing for tall blondes who use fuck off humor to shield their true selves. I’ll write my sister a strongly worded email of condemnation.

Cute, how she thinks he’d ever let her out of his sight.

Look at her. Just—look at her.

Her laughter adjusts the spin of his atoms.

“Good and evil are wide brushes that can’t always paint the fine details of real life.

“Mouthy, isn’t she, Boden?” He sighs. “Never thought I’d be into that, and yet. Bane of my fucking existence.”

“I love watching asses being ridden. It’s my favorite kind of porn.”

I will paint this entire territory green before I let anyone in the pack spill a single drop of red.

I laugh, and it makes his mouth twitch upward in a curve that is so…so charming, I need to trace it.

He told her that he would never touch her because he didn’t want her enough; in truth, he will never touch her because he wants her too much. The make-believe, he thinks, was kinder to both of them.

That’s when my phone rings with an unknown number. In the past, I’d have eaten glass with gonorrhea smeared on it before picking up.

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

I’ll be sad, if he ever holds me again, without the scratch of his beard against my skin. I was…yeah. Into it.

“And, killer?” “What?” “Tuck that T-shirt in your pants. It’ll look less like it’s mine.”

He wants to be with her for each marveled intake of breath.

There will be people referring to you as the harbinger of the decline of civilization, but what you are is not new, per se. It’s just… A comeback? If you will. What you’re saying is, I’m vintage. It’s not really what I— And Renaissance Girl should be my new nickname?

He wants to abscond with her. Fuck the rest of the world—it’s incapable of giving her the safety she so clearly deserves. He’ll fix that. He’ll make up for everything she has been put through.

He shakes his head, at a loss for words, and in this moment—when he looks as confused as I feel, when he chooses to share his lack of understanding with me, I think I love him. Just a little bit.

“Your name doesn’t fucking matter. You are my killer. Okay?”

“Killer?” “Yeah?” There is a false start. Like the words are too foreign to flow out with ease. But then he says, “Before I leave, I think I need to hold you for a minute.”

I’m in his arms before I know how I got there. He bends down to scoop me up, and my forehead fits so perfectly into the valley of his already-prickly throat, this cannot be anything but fated. He lifts me higher, my feet no longer touching the ground, and hides his face in my neck.

You’re doing amazing, Serena. Eva. Killer. Whoever you are.

Instead, his palms brace both sides of my bare thighs, and he leans into me. Close enough that his scent becomes my entire universe. Close enough for me to see little freckles on his skin, to count the scars that crisscross all over his torso. He looks down, inexorable, eyes blacker than black.

He bends further, and there isn’t a single trace of doubt on his face. He’s an immovable object and an unstoppable force. And he says, slowly, “If you think I’m going to let you die, Serena, you know fuck all.”

“If today was my last day, I’d be happy to have spent it with you.”

He easily resigned himself to a lifetime without her, but… Simply put, he is unwilling to contemplate a universe in which she no longer exists.

I would give a year of my life, a year I don’t even have, to press a kiss against the corner of his lips.

I would do illegal, maybe even unethical things, in exchange for the right to bury my nose in the crook of his throat, where the scent of him is densest.

There has never been anyone like him. I could live a thousand more years, and there will never be.

“You’re doing so good, killer.” “Yeah?” I whimper. “Yeah, baby.”