Page 131 of Mate
“Sorry,” he says. Before doing it again.
“Koen!”
“I said sorry.” He presses a kiss against the small of my back. I roll around just as he leaves the room, catching his small smile.
The caller is Lowe, wondering whether Koen’s toaster oven exploded and took him out. “All good. Serena tackled me,” I hear him say. And, after a pause, “Told you, she beat me up. Slapped the phone out of my hand. What is there to understand?” I bury my laughter into a pillow. And there, in a nest that smells like Koen, listening to talk of pack jurisdictions and Human authorities, I fall into a calm, deep sleep.
CHAPTER 33
This is it, then. What he was born for.
IWAKE UP WHEN IT’S STILL DARK, FEELING LIKE AN ABOMINATION.
My skin itches, too tight for my body. I arch against the mattress and press a palm to my abdomen: something hot and angry is pulsating inside me, and if I let it rip me apart, maybe it’ll stop clawing at my insides. I’m sticky. Covered in sweat, strands of hair glued to my throat. My inner thighs are so wet, I refuse to think about it.
This cannot be normal, even for a Heat. It must be my ever fucked- up biology. Layla— I need to call her. Maybe she has something for the pain.
Are you really going to do that in the middle of the night? Wake up a woman with a small child who may very well be teething, just because you have a boo-boo? Are you that self-centered?
A whole-body cramp splits me in two, and—Yes, I fucking am.
Layla’s number is on the desk across the hallway. I can get there. I can hike the Rocky Mountains. I can swim to outer space. I may even be able to do all thatandkeep quiet enough to let Koen sleep. He’s wrapped around me, chest to my back, and I gently slither under the arm he draped around my hips. I pause when his grip tightens on me, but it’s a reflex, and a moment later I’m free.
Sitting up sucks the air out of me. My head swims, so I take a well-deserved break and beg my racing heart to slow down,giving myself a little pep talk.You are able to breathe, Serena.Have been for years. If your life had a performance review, it wouldnotbe marked as an area of improvement.
Then I hear, “Serena.”
Shit. Woke Koen up.
“Just going to the bathroom,” I lie. It comes out slurred, a chain-reaction crash of vowels and soft consonants, so I add, “Go back to sleep,” making an effort to enunciate better.
“Are you okay?”
His voice rolls over my skin. Makes the thing pulsating inside me purr sweetly. For a second, it almostfeelsnice. “Yup. Don’t worry.” It’s a bad idea, trying to answer himandto stand at the same time. I’m in no condition for simultaneous activities: all it gets me is jelly knees and more pounding in my head. I remember, once upon a time, being able to walk and chew gum. Ah, past glories.
“Serena.” Rustling behind me. The mattress dips as weight is redistributed. Koen, always one to show me up, gets into a sitting position with ease. His hand closes around my upper arm to pull me back into him, and his touch, the sheerecstasyof it, it hurts. My entire body clenches. “What . . .”
He goes unnaturally still. So quiet, I wonder whether he’s feeling poorly, too. I turn to scan his face in the semidarkness, and after a long pause I hear him say, “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I didn’t mean to— ”
Make a mess of the bed.
Make a mess of you.
Get this grossly sick.
Lose my mind.
“I’m going— I’ll shower and call Layla and figure this out and— ”
“Serena, come here.” He scoops me back into him, shushing me with his lips against my temple.
I’m on the verge of tears, and I’m not sure why. “Maybe you could help me to the bathroom— ”
“Hush, killer. I got you.”
He holds me. I’m tacky and gross and don’t want to lean on him, but every inch of contact is pure heaven. “Koen?”
