Page 25 of Broken Arranged Mate
Oren stares at me for a long moment, those brown eyes so dark they almost look black, and I swear I catch a glimmer of that red from his coat in them. “You’re right.”
I am so surprised that I actually stumble backward, forgetting about the paint and bringing my dirty hand to my chest. “What?”
Oren shakes his head, turns back to the wall, and paints another perfect line just under one of the many windows. “The venue needs to be ready, and you’re my fiancée. I should make time for you to have the wedding you deserve.”
Before I can think about what I’m doing, or stop myself, I cross over to him and press the back of my hand to his forehead.
He tips his head up to me, his eyes flashing as he looks up at me.
I see the scene from the outside, him on his knees, me standing with my hand on his face, and my stomach flips. The sight of him like this, gazing up at me, makes my body feel molten. And the contact between our skin—like a wire to the positive side of a battery—isn’t helping.
“Are you feeling okay?” I attempt a weak follow-through on the joke.
To my surprise, Oren reaches up, takes my hand in his, and holds it loosely, like he’d rather have it in his palm than on his face.
“Ash.” His voice is pure gravel. “This might be a marriage out of political convenience, but I’m going to treat you well. You know that, right?”
Once again, a shiver runs through my traitorous body.
“Well.” I swallow. “I do now.”
The way he looks at me is like he wants to eat me alive. I drown in it, letting myself catch on his eyes, standing there long enough that my heart feels like it beats longer, slower, and attempt, maybe, at morose code.
Finally, after what feels like eons of my hand in his, he rasps, “Good.”
With that, I go back to my side of the room, and we work together on painting the room, silent aside from the music pumping through my speaker, not touching or looking at one another except for when I pour more paint into the tray, or when Oren alerts me to the fact that some of it is dripping down the wall.
We work together as the sun sets outside, casting a shadow over both lands, Ambersky in the distance, and the Grayhide territory far to the south. When the sun is finally down, it fills the room with a muffled, inky black, and we turn on the work lights, working in the low glow.
My skin tingles with anticipation, and as I paint, I imagine what it would be like for him to turn and take me in his arms, pull me to the ground, not caring about the paint, smearing it between our bodies.
I think about his large, rough hands, his open mouth, hot against my pulse point. I think about him pulling my hair, moving frantically over me, treating me like something he had coveted, even when we’d never met before in our lives.
“Ash?”
When Oren speaks, I startle, realizing I’ve finished painting and am just running the brush over the same spot again and again. He stands behind me, arms crossed, paintbrush back in the tray.
“What?” I say it dazedly, nearly dizzy from my fantasies of him.
Logically, I know it’s a bad idea. And yet, there’s still a voice in my head chanting, begging, pleading, repeating it over and over like a prayer:Touch me.
“I should probably get you home,” he says, clearing his throat, and the disappointment I feel is ridiculous. Oren hasn’t indicated that he wants anything to do with me, not physically at least, and so I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s not ravishing me in this tower.
Even though we’re alone.
“Yeah,” I practically choke. “Right.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in his truck and headed back into Ambersky, the light from the stars impossibly bright. Oren is quiet, staring out the windshield with a level of concentration that tells me he’s trying very hard not to fall asleep.
I think of long drives with my Gramps, talking to him to keep him awake.
“Any more challengers?” I ask, biting my tongue to keep from laughing when Oren startles, looking over at me like I’ve just let out a full-throated scream rather than a quiet question.
“No,” he finally says, turning his gaze back out the window.
Another beat passes, and I clear my throat, sitting up a little taller in the seat. “Too bad.”
That makes him look over at me, eyebrow lifting. “Too bad?”
