Except, being barred from relationships cannot be an easy decision to make, especially at fifteen. And . . . why did he not tell me? The first time we met, he informed me that I was his mate, but he never mentioned the covenant.

This conversation is not an invitation.

Even when I clumsily asked him out . . .

Like me, or don’t. I really couldn’t care less.

And last night . . .

I told you. I’m not interested.

He made it sound like he didn’t want to be with me. Never mentioned that he wasn’t allowed to.

“We were wondering . . .” A male voice interrupts my thoughts. When I glance up, Saul and Jorma are standing in front of the cabin, naked. I deliberately keep my eyes above their necks and try not to choke on my own breath. “Hey, guys.”

Saul grins. Winks at me, like one does. “Hey, honey. Jorma and I were in the area, to . . .”

“Take Koen’s beatings?” Amanda offers.

“Yeah, that. And we remembered that last night you mentioned how much you love to cook. So we figured you probably made something for breakfast today, and since it’s so hard to eyeball portions, you might have leftovers. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste, you know?”

I bite back a smile. “What would you guys like?”

“Oh, we don’t want to put you out. Just, if you have something you’re gonna toss anyway . . .”

I turn to Jorma, who’s high on directness and low on bullshit. “What would he like?”

“French toast, please,” Jorma says. “With a side of sausages.”

“You absolutely do not have to cook for these losers,” Amanda tells me. Then adds, “But if you do, please remember that I, too, did not have breakfast.”

I grin. “Come on in, then.”

Less than an hour later, my culinary ego has grown to the size of a quasar. From the window, I watch Jorma, Saul, and Amanda jump off Koen’s porch and shift into majestic wolves in midair. I follow their supple forms until they disappear. 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. However, because of my current high-reward social lifestyle, I have only two contacts: Misery— saved from memory— and Koen— preprogrammed. Which means that I’m not in a position to reject any unknown callers.

“It’s Juno,” the voice on the other end says, and I slump in relief. I don’t have the emotional strength to fend off financial fraud. “The Humans have gotten back to me about your DNA.”

I straighten. “Any news?”

“Yes and no.”

“Hit me.”

“As you know, the more distant the relation, the fewer the DNA segments shared, which decreases the likelihood of detecting— ”

“Juno,” I interrupt, amused.

“Yes?”

“It’s okay if you just tell me the findings.”

A pause. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I don’t trust you to understand the science behind— ”

“Feel free to condescend to me anytime.”

“In that case.” She takes a deep breath. “Your mother’s family seems to be from west of the Sawtooth Range.”

Sawtooth Range. Where have I heard of it? “Isn’t that part of the Rocky Mountains?”

“Correct.”

I visualize a map. Meaningless state lines that Humans drew up, splicing territories they haven’t visited in centuries. “Lakes area, right?”

“Correct,” she repeats.

“Borders with the . . . Midwest pack?”

Half a beat. “Actually, it’s closer to the eastern border of the Northwest territory.”

That would support Juno’s suspicion that my father was from here, too. “Is there a Human family member we could talk to?”

“The closest relatives we found were distant cousins. Not to mention . . .”

“We’re Weres, and they might welcome us with a machine gun?”

“It doesn’t sound too far-fetched.”

“Agreed. Hmm.”

From your mother, the note said. Koen thought it might be a prank, but my mother was from the area, so . . . what if she’s still here? She’s Human, and unlikely to make it into Northwest territory undetected. But maybe she has a Were friend who delivered it for her. Could it be my father? Could he still be in the pack? Unlikely, given how few members would be old enough. But still.

I blow my hair out of my eyes. Through the glass, I see Koen ambling back, breeze snaking through his dark fur. “I’m sorry, Juno, I need to go. Thank you for this.”

“Serena, may I tell Misery? I already know she’ll ask. She is very . . .”

“Nosy?”

“Yes. When it comes to you.”

“You can tell her anything, but if this information came to you through a computer, she’s likely to know already.”

“Ideal, as it would spare me an ethics-breaching conversation.”

I laugh, freshening up the coffee, and send a text:

I can’t help noticing that either you did not ask Lowe how a boy of fifteen managed to unify an entire pack, or you’re keeping the answer to yourself.

Misery: Lowe is in the south on pack business. I am but a lonely, neglected bride.

Serena: Don’t walk into the lake without first feeding Sparkles. How is my boy, by the way?

Misery: Last I checked his intestines were happy and productive. He may look like an overgrown hamster, but he sure shits like a lion.

Serena: Fantastic. Since your intellectual curiosity is clearly at its peak, can you find out something else for me?

Misery: Probably.

Serena: I need to know what specifically happened twenty-one years ago here in the Northwest. Weres died, especially older Weres. Humans were involved.

Misery: On it.

Misery: Although, and this might be too galaxy-brain an idea to have occurred to you despite your career as a journalist: you could ask questions? For instance, to the guy you live with? Who happens to have been an active participant in the events you just mentioned?

Serena: Everyone is being very cagey. This is obviously the Northwest’s big, formative trauma event, and they’re not over it. It’s like that thing you Vampyres always yap on about, with the blood and the wedding.

Misery: The Aster?

Serena: Yup. Except this happened years, not centuries ago, and I’m pretty sure that everyone’s genealogy tree died in it. It seems more tactful to seek alternative sources.

Misery: You soft hearted bitch. I could never.

Serena: Uh- huh. Where’s Ana, by the way? Snuggling on top of you? Yawning in your face? Drooling all over your pillow?

Misery: Absolutely NONE of the above.

Misery: But if she were, she’d tell me to say hi to Aunt Serena and to ask her when she’s coming back for more zip-lining.

Serena: Is she asking for your phone to play Tetris?

Misery: No comment. Goodbye.

I pour some coffee in a mug and set it aside for Koen. I’m gathering the seconds’ used but surprisingly clean plates when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch something in the hallway.

It’s a yellow flannel. The flannel I stole from Koen and slept in last night. The one I sweated through. The one I thought I’d put in the washing machine with the sheets.

“Shit,” I mutter, hurrying to pick it up. Unfortunately, at the exact same moment, the door opens.

Koen enters the cabin in human form, finishing pulling up a pair of jeans, the worn denim soft around his hips. He doesn’t bother buttoning them up all the way, and . . . I don’t know. I guess I could rapidly avert my eyes and maybe even flush. But in a place where no one seems to care about nudity, I’m the one making it weird.

Plus, I’m busy hiding the flannel behind my back. Which seems to accomplish very little, given the way Koen’s nostrils flare. I’m suddenly seized by terror: Can he smell the remnants of my sweatfest?

Clearly, yes. Because he goes rigid as a statue and asks, “What is it?” The words sound a bit like a growl, as though they’re coming from deep within his body.

“Nothing.” I swallow. Smile to soften the lie. “Just, my pj’s. I need to wash them.”