Page 29 of Broken Arranged Mate
A grin splits across Veva’s face, and she unpauses the video, just in time for Oren to grunt, “Creme brûlée.”
Something like shock, gooey, and pleased, spreads through me. I think about that first party, how he refused to take a bite of it. I can’t believe he even remembers what it was.
“That’s one point,” Veva says, cheekily, before Oren reads the next question. I watch the other women in the room, register the way they look at the TV screen, and flare with something that can only be—what? Protectiveness? Possessiveness?
“What is the groom’s—wait, I have to ask questions about myself?” he drops the paper, shaking his head. “I thought this was for the bridal party.”
“Bridal shower,” Veva retorts from behind the camera, which makes everyone in the room with us laugh. “And yes, you have to answer questions about yourself. That’s part of the game. To see how well you know one another.”
I see something flash over his face that I recognize—of course, we don’t know each other. Not in the way that most other engaged couples do.
“What is the groom’s favorite color?” Oren asks, voice flat and emotionless. He’s in the middle of letting out a long sigh when Veva pauses the screen, looking at me.
I’m laughing, “I don’t know, black?”
Veva cackles and unpauses the video, just for Oren to say, “I don’t know, black?”
“Match made in heaven,” Emaline laughs, while Kira shakes her head and says, “Black is not a color.”
Veva shushes the crowd and works the remote again, so Oren comes to life.
“What’s the bride’s best skill?” Oren reads, deadpan, from the paper. Once again, Veva pauses it, and everyone shifts their attention to me again.
“Uh…” I pause, clear my throat, thinking, wondering if I even have a best skill. “Nothing,” I laugh, while people boo and tell me to really answer.
But when Veva unpauses the TV again, it opens to a moment of silence, and, unable to stop myself, I twist in the chair, looking at the screen, watching Oren’s face shift from annoyed to thoughtful, like I have so many he has to think through to answer the question truthfully.
After a moment, he refocuses his attention on the camera and says, “She’s brilliant. Does that count as a skill?”
Veva hesitates on the video, then says, her voice warm, “Of course it does.”
I freeze, staring at the screen, heart thudding in my chest like Oren is here right now, saying that to my face. My entire body is hot, molten from the compliment, from the earnestness with which he delivered it.
But I can’t do this—I can’t let myself think this is anything more than what it is. Of course, he’s going to compliment me. That’s what we’re doing here, pretending to like each other. Bring the packs together. He’s not going to insult me for all the Ambersky women here to see. We all need them to like him.
And this is certainly working. When I turn back around, one of them is actually fanning herself.
“Okay,” Veva says, her eyes locked on mine. There must be something on my face, something that says I want nothing more than to be done with this game. It’s clear there are more questions, more videos, but she turns the TV off, clearing her throat and gesturing to the dining room. “Time for cake, everyone!”
Chapter 17 - Oren
It’s late, and I’m eight years younger, running.
Of course, my father is having a massive gala for the super blood moon, a mansion full of horny wolves. I’d thought I could hide in my room, steer clear, but when I tried to dart to the bathroom, I was cornered by an older woman, pressed against the wall, the sound of her growl against my throat making my stomach turn.
Barely an adult, and the women of this pack are already trying to stake their claim to me. Whispers fill the halls about when I might challenge my father for the alpha leader position. I want nothing to do with the cycle of violence, but I know it’s my responsibility to get him out. It’s the only way to protect the people of this pack.
When I come to the top of a sand dune and look out, I realize I’ve run long enough that I’m near the border, staring out at the transitioning land, where it turns from desert to hard, red earth.
And there’s someone out here.
She stands in the center of one of the plateaus, nose to the air, as poised and beautiful as I’ve ever seen.
The second I see her, I know without a shadow of a doubt that this wolf is my mate. And I also know that I am not a shifter with the luxury of claiming a mate. If my father were to find out about it—to discover the identity of my mate—he would use her to control me. He would hurt her, and she would never be safe from his reach as long as he was alive.
And still, I make my way to her, moving through the brush, eyes locked on her. If she’s aware of my presence, shedoesn’t make it known, holding herself stock still, almost as though she’s trying to drink in the light of the moon itself. Her wolf is much smaller than mine, in a shade of chocolate brown that’s dusted with silver and gray, reminding me of puppy chow, TV static, the dots behind my eyes when I can’t sleep at night.
I consider myself to be a strong man, not often easy to manipulate, but I feel the essence of the moon washing over me, softening me, bringing some of my synapses, long buried, back to life.
