Page 36 of Broken Arranged Mate
And I realize, coming back into my body, that I don’t feel any of the normal symptoms. Veva winks at me, the music swells again, then Dorian and I are walking down the aisle together, toward the man waiting for me at the altar.
Chapter 21 - Oren
I have never been a man to care about weddings.
When my father renewed his vows with my mother—an excuse to throw a party, and one with a punchline—I’d fussed against the suit I was stuffed into, resented being made to carry rings to the altar when my father didn’t honor them in the first place.
But this—even I can admit that this wedding is a thing of beauty.
Every aspect is at its peak, from the lighting to the expressions on the guests’ faces. Everything is perfect—that is, except for one thing.
The door opens, and when I see Ash in her wedding dress, the sensation reminds me of the time I grabbed an electric fence as a kid. More than having the breath knocked out of me, it was like my soul left my body, slinging up into the atmosphere before hurtling back into my chest.
She is breathtaking.
I should have known better than to imagine she would be in a simple white dress—especially not with the way Kira was talking about it, how my sister was evading the topic. Everything about the dress is completely Ash.
It’s impossible for me to take my eyes off her.
And, also, it’s impossible for me to catch her scent. I notice it the moment I see her, see Veva step forward and move her hands, clearly casting. Maybe it’s magic that’s affected her scent, or something else, but I can’t fathom why in the world they would hide my bride’s scent from me on our wedding day.
I want to smell her right now, as she walks up the aisle. When I look back on this memory, I want to be able to remember the way her scent intertwined with the moment. Every time I smell her from now on, I want to think about this, watching her walk toward me in that dress..
Even as I’m thinking it, I’m aware that these are the thoughts of a sentimental man, and certainly not someone marrying purely for political reasons, but the thoughts are outside of my control.
Ash reaches me, and I realize, after a beat, that I’m meant to pull the veil up and away from her face. I do, letting my thumb trail along the curve of her jaw, and I watch the shiver work its way through her body at the touch.
All I want is to get her alone.
Beyond the glass to our left, you can almost distinctly see the two lands—the tall, red mesas of Ambersky, and the smooth, rolling dunes of the desert. A union of two people, two packs.
Ash knew what she was talking about when she said this was the right choice for the ceremony. The symbolism of it is staggering—an old watchtower, instead converted to a place of celebration and unity.
“It looks amazing in here,” she whispers, and I realize there are tears at the corners of her eyes. Maybe she’s just overwhelmed with the moment.
I didn’t realize we were allowed to speak, and glance at the officiant to see if he’s going to do anything, but he’s too preoccupied opening his book and setting it on the altar to chastise us for breaking rules.
Turning back to Ash, I try to think of something to say. Ask her if she really thinks that, or if it's just a wedding dayplatitude. I could tell her that I did it for her. That all I want is for her to be happy—but it’s too late. The officiant has already begun.
“Welcome, everyone, to this very special evening.” He clears his throat, addresses both sides of the room, which not only hold Grayhide and Ambersky, but also Llewelyn and other, further packs.
If we’d had a contact for the Hysopp, we might have even tried to invite them, too, though I’m not in the school of people who think of the coven as anything more than a bedtime story.
“As I’m sure you all know, we are here to celebrate the union of Oren Blacklock, Alpha Leader of Grayhide, and Ash Fields of Ambersky. Our friends and family, loved ones and neighbors, are all here to witness the joy of this ceremony. And so let us begin.”
He starts by reading ancient tomes, words written by shifters in the pre-Amanzite times, grandfathers and great-grandfathers much older than me, who likely never imagined we would ever reach a place of allyship between the Grayhides and the Ambersky.
When I hear someone start to sniffle, I glance out into the crowd and realize it’s my mother, holding a handkerchief to her eye. Raegan sits next to her, rubbing her back. Next to Raegan is Wyn, who has taken his directive to protect my sister very seriously, his eyes drifting over to her.
The officiant finishes the reading and clears his throat, drawing me back to the moment. When I look back, I realize Ash is biting her lip—maybe to keep from laughing—and it makes a coil of lust push through me, getting tighter and tighter with each little unassuming thing that she does.
I want to know what this wedding dress looks like on the floor. I want to get her skin under mine again, feel that warmth, bury my nose in the crook of her neck until her scent returns to me once more.
“Now,” the officiant says, closing the book and looking between the two of us. “We can move into the vows.”
Neither of us wrote vows—what would I manage to write that would be reasonable for the people here to witness?—so he recites the standard ones, his eyes heavy and serious on me as he begins.
“Oren Blacklock, here before your pack, do you swear to uphold this union, treat this shifter with respect, and continue the bloodline with honor and dignity?”
