Page 47 of Mate
On the hood of his car there is a small parcel, carefully wrapped in brown paper. Someone wrote with a black Sharpie:For the former Human.
Instinctively, I round Koen to pick it up. A second later, I’m airborne: his arm is wrapped tight around my waist; my feet no longer touch the ground. His hand presses into my belly and pulls me closer to his chest. “Out of curiosity, do you have a death wish, or are you just being sewer-brained?”
I tug at his arm, with little success. I’m still suspended. “Oh, yes, the ultimate suicidal activity. Opening my own mail.”
“Serena, that is not normal.”
“Packages?”
“Packages for half-Human hybrids who are under my protection, and whose existence is under threat by multiple parties.” He shifts forward, aiming his words at the shell of my ear. A shiver travels through my spine. “Since you appear to need reminding, if some sketchy-looking cumduck pulls up in a white van and asks you to help him rescue his puppy— ”
“Okay, I get it.” He inhales deeply against my back. It’s like we share a single body. “Can you tell who dropped it off?”
He shakes his head. “They covered their scent.”
“Hmm. Does Brenna have security cameras?”
“Yes. But I doubt they picked up anything, or she’d already know.”
“Which means?”
“Just that the person who delivered the package knew where the blind zone was.”
“Is that a short list?”
“No. The point of the cameras is to monitor outsiders, not pack members.” Koen lets go of me and a new dance ensues, in which the package is reasonably ascertained not to contain explosives or biological hazards, then brought inside the car.
“Makes total sense,” I say.
“Hmm?”
“That the Alpha with responsibility over thousands of pack members would take on this super-risky endeavor, while the random unemployed hybrid watches at a safe distance. My life istotallyworth more than yours,” I say sweetly.
He pretends to ponder the matter. “You’re right. I should just off you myself and get it over with.”
I bite back a smile and watch him slowly tear into the paper. There is a card inside, which has Koen’s features tensing with worry.
The note, unsigned, simply says,From your mother.
Underneath there is a silver necklace: a moon scratched by four claw marks.
“WASHER AND DRYER ARE DOWN THE HALL,” KOEN TELLS ME BACKat his house. It’s like we never left at all. “There’s a bathroom in your bedroom.”
There is. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have a tub, which is a crucial part of my nighttime routine. Fortunately, I think I spot one in Koen’s en suite as he hands me a stack of towels thatfeel softer than a seal’s pelt. I bury my face in them and inhale deeply. Traces of soap and his skin fill my lungs, and I flush a little when his eyebrow lifts. “Um. Thank you.”
The plot twist I didnotexpect, given the scantiness of the furnishings, is the piano. I stare, intrigued. It’s mahogany. At once smooth and softened by time. Little scars. Faded spots. “Do you play?”
“No.”
“Then why— ”
“Family heirloom.”
I guess that explains the way it’s pushed against the wall in the far corner, almost hidden. I want to investigate, but Koen’s tone doesn’t encourage follow- up questions.
Back in the kitchen, he opens the fridge. It contains a single item: a purple box of something called “unicorn waffles.”
My eyebrow arches.
