Page 47 of Broken Arranged Mate
Ash makes a little noise, shifting in her seat, and my eyes flicker to her of their own volition, heart squeezing in response to the pain she feels.
I have no idea what to do about this situation—so far, in my life, I’ve lost nobody important. Of course, there’s the huge trauma with my father, but I was happy to see him go.
I have no idea what it’s like to lose somebody I wanted to keep.
And for it to happen so suddenly, for Beth to know it was coming and not tell Ash—it breaks my heart for her.
Beth is gone, and there’s nothing I can do about that. I’d told her she could stay behind to grieve, that nobody would think anything of that, but she’d just shaken her head, pushed out the front door. Now, the t transitions under my truck’s tires, the suspension shifting as we move from solid land to the more yielding and shifting terrain of the desert.
Each time I try to speak, I find the words stick in my throat. Ash already wants nothing to do with me. Aside from the soup dinner we shared, we haven’t spent more than five minutes in a room together since I left her during her heat.
I regret it.
But, at the same time, I don’t.
It’s my duty to care for this pack, and I can’t do that if I’m tied up in a love affair. My father was a superfluous man, constantly following his emotions—like greed, lust, and obsession—and it was the worst possible thing for our people.
I cannot—andwill not—be like him.
The temperature drops the closer we get to our house, and the tires occasionally slip in looser patches of sand. When I pull up outside the house and cut the engine, we sit there in the near-silence together, listening to the truck click and adjust. Then, after a few minutes, she lets out a loud, shuddering sigh, and I slip out of the driver’s seat, rounding to her side.
But she doesn’t let me open the door for her—she’s already jumping out by the time I arrive, pushing past me and up the walk. There’s something about her, the way she walks right now, almost like she’s drunk with grief.
We’re standing on the porch when Ash trips, and I reach out to grab her, just like I did earlier, when she was getting out of the car. The physical contact is excruciating, but it’s not like I’m going to let her hit the ground.
Pausing, we stand on the porch together, her biceps warm under my touch, her breathing shallow, her face still damp from tears.
Then, I make a huge mistake, let my feelings come to the surface, and say, “Ash—I am so sorry.”
It’s as if me speaking brings her back to life, reminds her who I am, and she jerks away from my touch. I see the moment it registers in her mind that there’s contact between us, the disgust that flickers over her features.
Seeming to shove her grief down, she runs her fingers through her hair, tucks it behind her ears, then turns and pushes through the front door.
I stand there for a moment, digesting, shocked by how suddenly she went from letting me hold her to running away. Around me, the insects chirp, and somewhere far above, a desert owl lets out a desolate hoot.
I’m standing alone on the porch, and my wife is inside the house, likely already back to her room, where she’ll deadbolt the lock and hide away until I leave again.
So, after tonight, she’s back to ignoring me.
It shouldn’t hurt—it shouldn’tmatter. This is what’s best for both of us. And whether Ash agrees with it or not, it’s my duty as the alpha leader to make those decisions.
Except when I step over the threshold, I find Ash standing there, waiting for me, her arms crossed, anger flickering behind those large blue eyes. The streaks of silver in her hair catchthe light from the porch, and her feet are planted in a widened stance, almost like she’s getting ready to fight me.
“So, you can offer me some half-assed condolences for my loss, but not even apologize for what you did to me?”
Her words are biting, cutting right into me, and I realize that I never should have thought I’d get away with avoiding her. Ash Fields is not the kind of woman who will let things go.
I stare at her, swallowing, unable to stop my eyes from drinking her in. Her lips are pressed together, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling steadily under the loose, tattered pajama shirt she didn’t even have a chance to change out of.
With wild hair and wide eyes, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Ash—” I start, but she is, apparently, not done with me, because she steps forward, jabbing her fingers into my chest hard enough that on any other man, it might hurt.
But it only manages to send a shock of arousal through me, tinged with the edge of her rage. Almost like my body is happy enough for her to feelanythingabout me.
“No.” She pauses, shakes her head, and I see the fury actually vibrating her body. “No, Oren, you don’t just get to—”
Ash cuts herself off, turning and dropping her head into her hands, letting out a tiny, mangled scream. I hesitate, then move forward, gently resting my hand on her shoulder. I can tell, even without asking, that her grief over Beth is twisting her up inside right now. That makes it harder for her to talk, to think—that it might be better for both of us to just go to bed.
