Page 15 of Broken Arranged Mate
I’ve seen this before. He’s paralyzed.
Oren shifts back, too, breathing heavily and moving until he’s standing near, but not over the man. He says something quietly, his voice deep, then, after a moment, he reaches down, takes the man’s head in his hands, and twists.
I look away, so I hear the impact, but don’t see the kill.
“I told you to go,” Oren says, making my jump. I startle back from him, sucking in a breath, meeting his eyes with a newfound…what? Appreciation?
Stupidly, the first thing I say is, “You killed him.”
“He asked me to.” His voice is low, even, calm, and I realize it’s calming me, too. “He was paralyzed—nothing the healers can do. So I told him to blink three times if he wanted me to end it. That’s what he asked for, and so I did it.”
I nod, having the sudden, complete realization of something that hasn’t occurred to me until this moment—as much as I’ve always wanted to be a leader, there are some of the role’s responsibilities I’m happy not to carry.
I’m still staring up at Oren, and I realize howtiredhe looks—dark circles under his eyes, a ragged sense to his breathing, like he could fall into a deep sleep at any moment. Becoming an alpha leader is draining on anyone—I remember the chaotic months right after Dorian took over—but trying to clean up after Mhairi Argent and Jerrod Blacklock?
It makes sense that Oren is running ragged.
Gaze shifting, I realize there are paramedics here, quietly arriving and moving the body onto a stretcher. “Have you had many challengers?”
“Five,” Oren says the word definitively, and I know without a doubt that every one of them is dead now. “Five since the official ceremony, with Aidan.”
I swallow, glance out into the street, think about how the barren feel of this place contributes to that kind of attitude—a ghost town with an iron-clad ruler. Oren needs to find a way to show them he’s not his father. That they can trust him as a leader.
“You know,” I say, voice low, “we started doing markets downtown, back in Ambersky—”
“We have enough problems with markets,” Oren snaps, his face going dark, and it’s like I can see those walls shutting right down into place again.
“No, not like that—”
“I am not in need of your council, Ash.” The words come out through his teeth, minced and taut. A twist of fury and despair courses through me, something bordering on embarrassment, indignation.
But before I can say anything or reply to that, he’s already turned, walking down the street in the direction we were headed before.
Chapter 9 - Oren
When I turn right instead of left towards my father’s house, Ash doesn’t seem to notice. I’m quiet, following the turns of the road, and she sits quietly in the passenger seat.
I know I hurt her feelings by shutting down her suggestion. But it’s best for both of us if we steer clear of that—it’s bad enough having to do this, spend time with her, so the shifters in this pack see our courting. But working with her? Hearing her ideas and spending that time together?
It’s already torture, having her here. Walking her through this territory, knowing she can’t be free. She’s safe, because I would never let anyone hurt her, but she can’t walk freely, can’t travel without me for fear one of the dissidents might attack her, use her to go against me.
We can’t even go into the most beautiful parts of the city—not now, not today. I’m still dealing with shifters intent on destroying my position.
There are still some people who believe adamantly that Aidan should be our Alpha leader. There are some who claim I’m just like my father, evil and controlling, and cite the fact that I haven’t already managed to fix everything in under a year as evidence of that.
“Wow,” Ash says, sitting up in her seat, attention piqued when we pull through the gate and up the long drive. “What is this place?”
“This,” I say, clearing my throat and putting the truck in park outside the front door, “is our house.”
She turns to me so quickly her hair swings when she does, and I notice the moment as being decidedly Ash-like, prettyand understated. Excitement without flash, a genuine sort of enthusiasm that fills the cab like perfume.
“Our house,” she repeats, looking back to it, and I can’t stop myself from staring at her, trying to figure out what she’s thinking.
It sits perched at the top of a small rise, a little crest of sand that turned to sandstone outside the city, and offers a sweeping view of the land beyond with the skyline in the background.
The roof is flat with an overhang to provide shade, a typical adobe style with a bit more flare, faded mosaics, and stained glass from where my grandmother wanted to bring in some color.
Native shrubs, aloe, and resilient desert plants are even withering in the front yard, and the exterior is clearly weathered by the sand and wind.
