That’s where Koen found me and decided to educate me about electricity.

“Oh.” I glance at the, yes, very dangling power cord. “Duh.” I smile, trying to display the right ratio of self-deprecating to mortified, and look for an outlet.

“On your left,” he says.

I turn.

“Your other left.”

I want to go outside, swallow a porcupine, and wait for the internal hemorrhaging to finish me. Instead, I set the laptop aside and stand. “Koen, right? Nice to meet you.” I offer my hand— which he looks at but doesn’t take. Okay, I think, tucking it in my back pocket.

Maybe it’s a Were thing. Maybe Koen’s hand-shaking partners must clear a certain IQ threshold, which I clearly do not. Misery mentioned something about him being “an exceptional asshole”— a seldom-offered compliment from her— so if he doesn’t like me, I’m not going to bawl. There’s more pressing stuff taking up my brainpower. “Was there anything you needed?” I ask with a polite smile.

“To talk. Do you have a minute?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

He doesn’t tell me. Instead he looks, and looks, and looks some more. His eyes are . . . not black. Not gray, either. Somewhere in between. Reflective. They feel like tar: viscous, sticky, well-laid traps. I cannot tear mine away, but neither can I hold his gaze.

“Are you here to behold the hybrid?” I ask without hostility. The Weres I’ve met so far have shown me nothing but kindness, and their curiosity is a small price to pay for their welcome. Especially considering that most Humans would shoot me on sight. “Here I am.” I twirl around to give him the best three-sixty view of my aberrant self. “Honestly, I think I just look Human, but . . .” I cut off, because his eyes . . . That thing they’re doing, it’s not normal. They glow and contract and—

Koen grunts. His head tips back, showing a strong neck and a working throat. “What the fuck have I done to deserve this?” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Actually, I just remembered.” He lowers his chin and sighs. His voice is deep and gravelly. “I’ve been a piece of shit for most of my life, that’s what.”

“I . . . don’t follow?”

Heavy steps thud up the stairs. It’s Lowe, who joins us and asks, “You told her?”

“Not yet.”

Lowe nods, and I get my first hint that whatever Koen wants from me, it’s probably a bit more serious than May I ask about your hybrid diet and musculoskeletal system and whether you molt in the fall?

“Where’s Misery?” I ask, suddenly terrified. “And Ana?”

“They’re fine. Both downstairs.” Lowe pauses. “Do you want Misery here?”

“I . . .” Yes. Kind of. But also, I do miss being a functioning adult who can operate without her Vampyre security blanket. “Nah.”

Lowe turns to Koen. “You really want to tell her now?”

“Might as well.”

The two men stand, silent, staring— Lowe like I’m a wounded kitten he’s trying to corner for an injection, and Koen . . . I can’t get a good read on him, which might account for how alarming I find him.

Or it could be the scars. The three parallel claw marks on his face, for instance. The one in the middle is the longest: it starts up in his forehead, dissects his brow, and continues down his cheek in a thin, straight line. He also has small ones on his upper lip, at the base of his jaw, past his collarbone. But none are hungry or red or new. None suggest that he’s itching for a fight.

He’s big, too— as in, big. Just a couple of inches taller than Lowe, but approximately ninety times more intimidating. It’s because Lowe feels domesticated, a wise, instinctual voice explains from the recesses of my skull. Lowe can, and will, control and pace himself. Koen is a wild card. Koen is raw. Koen will do whatever the hell he—

“You are my mate,” he says. With little inflection.

So little, I must have misheard. I learned it back in college. Linguistics elective, junior year. The rhythmic patterns of language contribute to listening comprehension. “Excuse me?”

“You and the Vampyre are close, right?” he asks, full of that calm that borders on indifference. Is he making fun of me? “She explained what a mate is?”

Slowly, I nod.

“What Misery is to Lowe, you are to me.”

Oh.

Oh?

Oh. “Is this a, um . . . terminal diagnosis?”

His lips twitch. “No cure, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” I clear my throat. “Well, this relationship sure escalated quickly.”

His words surprised me, but the way the corners of his eyes crease in amusement shocks me tenfold. His laugh is a deep, warm chuckle that makes my heart stumble. “You have no idea, kid.”

I cross my arms. “Should you be calling me ‘kid,’ given the situation?”

“I’m not married to it. What would you prefer?”

“Well, there’s always my actual name. But if you insist on a nickname, I’d prefer something with a bit more . . .”

“More?”

“More teeth.”

His eyebrow rises. “Root canal?”

“No. Come on, you know what I mean. Something that inspires fear.”

“Real estate market crash.”

“Okay, maybe less fear and more . . . awe. Warrior-like.”

His once-over is skeptical. “You’re what? Five feet?”

“I’m two and a half inches over that. And for your information, the other day these stubby little legs butchered several Vampyres.”

“Look at you go, killer.”

“Guys.” Lowe’s voice startles me. I forgot he was there. “We should get back to the matter at hand.”

Koen and I exchange a brief Can you believe this narc? glance.

“I think that part of the conversation is over,” Koen says, pushing nonchalantly away from the doorway. “She’s been informed. She understands. We can all resume our normal activities, such as running packs, or”— he glances at my laptop— “boycotting power outlets.”

I stave off a smile. “I forget one time and— ”

“Serena.” Lowe. Interrupting again. “Do you really understand what it means?” The urgency in his tone is a confusing contrast to Koen’s indifference.

And then the full impact of it slams into me.

No, I don’t understand. Because I haven’t even stopped to consider it. “Is it . . . Does it mean that he . . .” On the mate thing, Misery was light on the specifics. And it’s not as though Lowe unburdens his secret heart to me. “Does it mean that he likes me?”

“Yes,” Lowe says— which perfectly covers Koen’s “No.”

I frown. “Wow. This is bringing me lots of clarity. Thanks, guys.”

Lowe glares at Koen, who’s sporting a shit-eating grin. “Look, I’m sure you’re a very likable person. It’s not what this is about, though.”

“What is it about?”

Lowe massaged the bridge of his nose. “For a Were, finding a mate triggers a chain of physiological changes. Misery compared it to falling in love at first sight, and there’s some truth to that, but— ”

“I’m sorry.” I cut in. “Could you leave the two of us alone?” I’m looking at Koen, but the question is for Lowe— whose concerned scent signals a strong objection.

In all fairness, a one- on- one with a possible nutjob who wants me to become his mail-order bride does seem like a terrible idea. But I suspect that if Koen wanted to hurt me, he could do it whether Lowe was babysitting us or not.

More importantly: I suspect that Koen has no interest in doing any of that.

“Please,” I add calmly.

In response to Lowe’s searching gaze, Koen nods. Once.

“Call if you need anything,” Lowe says gruffly before turning on his heel, an invite interestingly directed at both me and Koen.

Then we’re alone. Somehow, my stomach feels ten pounds lighter. Weird. “Will you come in, please? And, ah, sit down.”

He does, no questions asked— kneeling briefly to plug my damn charger into the damn socket. I pretend not to see it, and close the door.

Koen slouches lazily on the chair next to mine, almost too relaxed, a large apex predator examining its quarry. Like we’re about to discuss the new garbage collection schedule, and not a major psychosocial milestone in the life of a Were. Maybe this mate business isn’t that big of a deal?