Page 22 of Mate
“Can I be president?”
“Treasurer at most.”
“No deal.” I yawn into the spot at the base of his neck, which causes his grip to falter first and then tighten. “Seriously, you can let go of me.”
He does, but only because we’ve reached our destination. He deposits me on a worn-out but clean sectional and then proceeds to look down at me with a frown.
“You okay?” he asks, gruff. “Anything feel . . . loose inside?”
“Loose? Like what?”
“I don’t fucking know. An artery?”
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?”
He scowls. Leans down. Cups my nape with one hand, while the fingers of the other slide through my hair, now matted with sweat, mud, and Bob’s blood. His grip is gentle. Soothing.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeling for a bump.”
“Why?”
“Might explain the sudden onset of aphasia.”
I snort out a laugh. “Come on, Koen. Tell me you at least yell ‘timber’ every once in a while.”
The only thing he’s ready to tell me is that he’ll have me institutionalized. It’s for the best, then, that Amanda sinks down next to me and wraps me in a hug.
“Look at you. Not even a little bit dead.” She grins. By the time she pulls away, Koen is gone. “Despite your high-stakes, violent existence.”
I snort again, looking at her round face, flawless dark skin, full lips. She’s around Koen’s age, even though she could pass for a high schooler. That’s where the similarities end: she’s kind and humorous, and I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her call someone a “rotten cockwomble.”
“I missed you,” she tells me. She and I met only recently, but we got close very quickly. Koen wouldn’t allow me to move into the cabin without periodic supervision and tasked her with coming to check on me once a week or so. I don’t really consider myself in the market for new friendships, not at this stage of my . . .life, let’s call it, but there are only so many games of I Spy one can play (seventeen, to be precise) before starting to miss meaningful conversation. By the second visit, we were dumping on each other like coal trimmers on theTitanic. Pretty cathartic— if mostly abridged and highly redacted on my part. “You don’t look too well.”
I smile. “Yeah. So I hear.”
“Sorry some asshole Vampyre interfered with your search for, uh, inner peace.”
I am profoundly embarrassed that my cover story for needing to stay at the cabin required me to utter words likeharmonyandserenitywith a straight face. Sometimes, you just do what you have to. “It’s okay. It’s been very . . . restorative,” I lie bald-facedly. Weres can usually pick up fibs, but they struggle to make sense of me. Being a hybrid has its pros. Well . . . pro. Singular.
“Thank God Koen was in your area to meet with huddle leaders.” Amanda takes my hand. “I was shitting myself when Lowe told us about the Vampyre tracking you.”
“I was not,” Jorma says, stepping inside the room. He’s another of Koen’s seconds— a stern, statuesque man with white-blond curls and icy-blue eyes. Jorma loves rules, unnecessary clerical work, waiting in line, and— hazarding a guess, here— bland foods covered in protein powder. His childhood dream was probably to become a hall monitor. I’ve seen him smile only once, and it was a terrifying process, like he’d learned how to move his facial muscles from a book. I hope it never happens again. “Serena has bested several Vampyres in a fight before.” He nods at me in approval. “No reason to worry about her.”
I should be grateful for what’s obviously as close to a compliment as Jorma gets, but his misplaced faith just makes me want to shrink into the couch. “Yeah. Thanks,” I croak.
The last second in the cabin is Saul— who, unlike Jorma, has never filled out a form in his life, communicates mostly through grins and winks, and is the biggest, loudest flirt I’ve ever met. “Honey,” he says instead ofHello. He takes me in with a pained expression. “The hoodie-chic, blood-spattered, final-girl outfit suits you. The hair, not so much.”
I pout. “But my stylist said it was some.”
“You deserve a refund.” He bends to kiss my cheek. “You look rough. Need a hug? Chamomile tea? A coloring book with some pencils? All of the above?”
Every time Saul comes up in conversation, someone feels the need to mention how incredibly handsome he is, but I don’t see it. Maybe it’s because I know that he’s Amanda’s ex. Maybe he just doesn’t do it for me. I guess I’m more into . . .
