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 fee
