Page 9 of Mate
“So.” I run my tongue against the back of my teeth. “Love at first sight, huh?”
Koen winces. “Not quite. Lowe’s a bit of a romantic.”
“Oh?”
“A side effect of all that decency, probably. Colors his perception of the world.”
“Butyourperception is unmarred. Because you’renotdecent?”
He doesn’t reply, but he smells like he agrees. “What’s happening here has very little to do with loving or liking, Serena.”
“Whatdoesit have to do with, then?”
A beat. His lips curve. “Really?”
I stare at him, stumped.
“Oh, killer. I’m happy to spell it out for you, if you need me to.”
“Idoneed you to. Like I’m five, preferably.”
“Not sure I can make it anything under NC- 17.”
“What do you—ooh.” My cheeks flood with heat. After gawking owl-eyed at Koen for a long stretch, I realize that I’m clutching my chest like a Victorian governess and abruptly let go.
“I . . .” I shake my head, not wanting to come across as some sex- ed- deprived orphan who thinks that childbirth occurs when nose boogers reach critical mass.
I’m not. Although I used to be, in my teens. 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 (somethingno onegave a shit about) or too disruptive (somethingeveryonewas 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 Weres Are Actually Reproductively Compatible and Might Therefore Decide to Not Hate Each Other or Even Form Alliances Against the Vampyres.
Plot twist.
But at the time, no one knew that. Back then, my entirevaluewas exclusively reflected in Misery. My education hinged on hers. And since no one was certified to teach reproductive anatomy to a Vampyre, I didn’t get sex ed, either.
Once we got out, though, we had unlimited access to the internet and dates and boyfriends. And, of course, sex.
Except, that was a lifetime ago. A handful of years that might as well be entire geologic eras. Back then, I wasHuman. I wasn’t terrified of the full moon, or of what color my blood would spill if I cut myself. Once I began to realize that there was something very, very wrong with me, the entire concept of sex became laughably trivial. At the beginning of my abduction, I was brieflyconcerned that it might be forced upon me. When that wasn’t the case, it was pleasantly forgotten.
And now here I am. Thinking about it. Sex is a giant winged dragon, stretching awake in my head.
“Can you . . .” I swallow. “These biological changes you mentioned. Can you control yourself?”
The meaning takes a minute to sink in. When it does, I half expect Koen to resent my question, but there’s no trace of defensiveness in his firm “Always.”
It makes it easier to believe him. “So, basically, you just want to . . . ?”
“Correct.” He nods casually.Yes, I would love a cup of Earl Grey. Yes, I’ll respond to a brief survey in exchange for a ten percent discount on my purchase. Yes, I do want to f—
“I hope I don’t sound conceited, but . . . how is it different from the reaction of most Human men I’ve met?” I cringe the instant the words are out. “God. Idosound conceited. I’m sorry. I promise I don’t walk around thinking that my face launches a thousand erections— ”
“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.
Like I could resemble the reflection of a wart on a doorknob, and it would change nothing for him.
Which might be just what I need. My looks have always been a sore point for me. Something ugly, to be ashamed of.Sexualized too young, a friend with a psychology degree once said. Misery and I turned twelve, and our paths diverged. She became longer, graceful, ethereal. I, softer. Rounder. Suddenly my bodyburst. I bloomed into something with hips and breasts, and people— mostly adult men— would look at me in ways that hopscotched between uncomfortable and dangerous.
