Page 61 of Broken Arranged Mate
I realize this is exactly like what happened last time, but this time without the wedding dress. He was carrying me bridal style through the house, me right at the beginning of my heat. A do-over for both of us.
The tiniest prickle of fear pushes through me—what if this time turns out just like the last one did?
I can’t think about it, so instead, I just trust him, nestling against his chest, pressing my face into the curve of his neck where his scent is strongest. I inhale deeply, letting his familiar scent—star anise, rich spices—wash over me. It calms the frantic pulsing of my heat, if only temporarily.
This time, instead of taking me to the bedroom, he carries me straight to the bathroom, holding me as he buries his nose in the crook of my neck and breathes me in deeply, just like I did to him.
“Bath or shower?” he asks, holding me like I weigh nothing.
I laugh. That’s not what I was expecting. “Bath.”
Oren hits the light switch with his elbow, then sets me carefully on the closed toilet lid, his hands lingering to ensure I’m steady before turning to the tub. I watch as he leans over, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he turns the taps. The pipes groan—they’re old, original to the house, and definitely need replacing—as hot water rushes into the claw-foot basin.
Steam rises, fogging the mirror. Oren adds lavender oil to the water, and I have no idea where he found it. Was it left over in the house? The scent unfurls in the humid air, and I feel my shoulders relax slightly, the tight knot of pain forming in my lower back easing just a fraction.
“Arms up,” he instructs gently, turning back to me.
I comply, allowing him to peel my sweat-soaked pajama shirt from my body. His eyes darken as he looks at me, but there’s something beyond desire there—a protective devotion that makes me feel simultaneously small and incredibly powerful. My skin is flushed pink, hypersensitive to even the air currents in the room.
He helps me stand, his hand steady at my waist as I step out of my underwear. My legs tremble embarrassingly, the heat making me weak in ways I hate. But Oren’s grip is sure, keeping me upright until I’m safely lowered into the tub.
I can’t help the sigh that escapes me as the hot water envelops my body. The relief is immediate, if temporary.
He dips a washcloth into the water, a gentle cascade as he squeezes it over my shoulders. With methodical care, he runs the cloth along my neck, across my collarbones, down my spine. There’s intimacy in his touch that transcends the physical—a wordless promise that he’ll see me through this, that I’m safe with him.
I wonder, also, if this is him trying to wash the night away from me. Get rid of the smell of those men on my skin.
“I’m sorry for leaving without telling you,” I say, and he looks up at me, his hand pausing mid-air with the cloth.
“Well,” he clears his throat, laughing a bit, his black hair falling onto his forehead. “You made a good point. We’re even now.”
“Aidan and Emaline have a deal that neither of them leaves without telling the other where they’re going. I think—I think we should do that, too.”
It feels weird to admit that I want this from him, but Kira was right. I have to be brave about this, tell him what I want and how I’m feeling.
“Anything,” he says, eyes on me with a serious weight. “I’ll agree to anything if it means I get to keep you, Ash.”
That makes my stomach flip, and I watch him as he continues running the cloth over my arms gently. Even the roll of the water over my skin makes me shiver with desire.
“I’ve always hated my heat. It makes me feel helpless.”
“Should I apologize again for what I did?” Oren asks, cracking a half-smile. “Because I will.”
“No,” I laugh, shaking my head and looking away from him. “I just—I really prefer feeling strong over this.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen you as anything but strong, Ash. In fact, for most of the time I’ve known you, you’ve terrified me."
“Really? Even when I’ve been a sweaty, hormonal mess?”
“Yes. It reminds me that I’m not the only one who struggles with self-control.”
When I look at him again, his pupils are blown wide, and I know the way my scent is affecting him right now.
“Come here,” I whisper, my fingers curling around his wrist.
He leans in, and I press my forehead to his, our breaths mingling. For a moment, we stay like that, sharing air and unspoken words. Then I shift, angling my face to brush my lips against his.
The kiss is gentle at first, a mere suggestion of contact, but I deepen it, sliding my hand to the nape of his neck. He tastes like home.
