Page 11 of Broken Arranged Mate
Oren glances at me, but says nothing. I sigh without meaning to, and he hikes an eyebrow at me. “What?”
“You didn’t answer me,” I say, raising an eyebrow right back.
“You didn’t ask a question,” he counters, brow furrowing now.
I bite my tongue, push down the frustration in my chest. “Okay. Do you think this is a weird setup? Us all alone over here? Marooned away from the party, even though it’s about us?”
“I’d rather be sitting over here with you than with all of them.”
Heat spreads up my cheeks. I’m not sure how to take that—he likes me enough that he’d miss the party to sit with just me? Or he hates parties enough that he’s willing to withstand my presence, if that’s the cost?
Definitely the latter.
I glance at him without meaning to, catching the strong arch of his jaw. Biting my tongue, I force myself to face forward again, to try and avoid the thoughts flooding my head.
But I can’t.
Because Iknowthe way that jaw feels under my thumb, deceptively soft compared to how it appears. I know the scrape of his stubble, the weight of him, the sound he makes when he’s lost to himself.
Maybe it would be best for us to just address the issue, our shared past. Rather than acting like it doesn’t exist, like our wedding night will be the first time we’ve had each other.
“Oren,” I start, clearing my throat and turning to him. “Don’t you think we should talk about—”
He answers me without looking at me, his jaw ticking once, definitively, like he’s been expecting this and was just waiting to shoot me down.
“No.”
I sit stunned for a moment, then swallow and try again. “I just think—”
He stands abruptly, drawing every eye in the space to us. Turning, he faces me, something unreadable in his expression.
“I’m done eating,” he says, voice not betraying the subject he’s trying to avoid. I have no idea how he managed to school his face like that, to remain so impassive, but it’s infuriating. Holding his hand out to me, he says, “Should we dance?”
A little cheer goes up around the room as I take his hand and stand, following him to the dance floor. The strings swell, and the music gets loud enough for us to dance to. After a moment, I step into him, settling my head against his chest, so I can hear thethud, thudof his heart.
My heart feels practically suspended in my chest, unable to beat, locked in a straitjacket. Oren steps into me methodically, taking my left hand in his and settling his other hand on my lower back. I stutter for a moment, not sure what to do, and he gently takes my other hand, setting it on his bicep.
“Oh,” I say when he starts to move us, stepping in time to the rhythm, his movements confident and sure. Without meaning to, I look up into his eyes, like a slow dancing couple in a movie, and I’m surprised to find him already looking down at me, his face—as always—unreadable. “You know how to dance.”
Simply, he says, “My father ensured we learned. For all his parties.”
Heat moves to my cheeks again when I think about that scene in the ballroom, when his father died. When he killed Mhairi Argent. How many times had he been in that place, dancing, honoring the dad he hated?
For the first time since standing up in that meeting, I start to really grasp what I’m getting myself into. I attach myself to this man. Someone I barely know.
Here we are, dancing together, him leading me in the steps, moving like he doesn’t even have to think about it. His hand on my lower back, our skin seeming to spark where it touches.
He says nothing for the rest of the dance, swiftly moving me into another when the music ends, and other people come join us on the dance floor.
Our breath mingles, and I resist the urge to rest my cheek on his chest, because I know he’s not feeling the same. He’s doing this for the good of his pack, holding me, dancing with me like this. I have no idea what is going on in his head.
We’re as close physically as we can be, and he might as well be on another continent.
Chapter 7 - Oren
I wish I were anywhere else right now—back in my own territory, in my own home, not in the center of all these people, a fun little party favor for them to take home and talk about amongst themselves.
My entire body is on high alert with Ash in my arms, highly attuned to every place our skin touches. I wish, more than anything, that I didn’t like her. That she disgusted me, or that her presence simply did nothing to me.
