Page 3 of Broken Arranged Mate
Around me, my kitchen is in a state of disrepair, panels pulled off the cabinets, some of them laid out with pastel yellow paint, the other half sanded down and ready for a coat. My hands are stained, dry, and rough from the work, and my wild hair is piled on top of my head, tied into a knot, a few strands drifting down and sticking to my neck.
“Hell-o?”
When the song playing on my Bluetooth speaker switches to a different one, a voice floats through the dead air, and I startle, nearly ripping the screw clean through the wood panel I’m holding.
The drill stops, and the person reaches over to pause the music. When I look up through my bangs, I realize it’s not just one person—it’s three.
Kira, Emaline, and Veva stand just beyond the kitchen, each of them looking in on it with a different expression—Kira with concern, Emaline with awe, and Veva with appreciation.
“Ash,” Kira says, her voice getting a bit higher. Today, her red-gold hair is pulled into a thick braid on the right side of her face, and she wears a dark floral dress that hugs her chest, a long-sleeve sheer white shirt stretching to her wrists beneath. “We came to check on you.”
Kira is just a few months healed from giving birth to the triplets—in fact, all three of them have recently had babies, with Emaline only weeks out from hers.
Something pangs low in my chest at the feeling of exclusion, and I swallow through it, not letting it rise up.
It’s not their fault I’m firmly on the outside of the mom club. That’s not the only club I’m on the outside of, but again, I’mnotthinking about it.
“You came to check on me?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and getting to my feet. I’m wearing my thick working overalls—which are great for when I’m doing hard work, but which make me feel frumpy next to the other three women.
Kira is always dressed perfectly, her clothes precisely tailored, and Veva has a certain, almost punk-rock coolness about her. Emaline wears a purple plaid dress with a matching bow, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back.
Self-consciously, I brush some of the sawdust off my chest.
“Well,check onis a bit strong,” Veva says, popping her hip and looking around. “I always forget what a wizard you are with this stuff, Ash.”
That’s rich, coming from an actual wizard—I was at the ceremony where my brother, the alpha leader, commended Veva for her work. Her ability with magic is unmatched.
“You’re doing yellow?” Emaline asks, her eyes darting to the freshly-painted cabinets. “I love that—it’s so pretty.”
“Thank you.” Addressing Emaline is easier than answering the other two. Of course, Kira is checking on me—as the luna of the pack, she has an inclination toward nurturing. And Veva doesn’t mean to, but herforgettingabout my doing carpentry cuts straight to the center of me.
Building stuff was the one thing Gramps and I did alone together. Every other part of him, Dorian got first dibs on, and I was left with the scraps.
“You weren’t answering the group chat,” Kira says, those sharp eyes on me. I feel some walls go up, even as that makes me guilty.
If a shifter wants to keep something to herself, a room with these three women is the worst place to be—Kira as a clairaudient, Veva with clairsentience, and Emaline with claircognizance. And they’ve all been working with Beth—the oldest and most knowledgeable psychic in the pack—to develop their abilities.
I take a step back from them, as though the physical distance will help me keep my secret.
I’ve managed to keep it for years, from my brother, from my friends, even from Gramps when he was still alive. And there’s no way I’m going to let them figure it out now, just because the unrest in my stomach drove me to remodel my kitchen.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Sorry. I got sucked into this project. I found that antique stove I was talking about, and figured I’d have to adjust the cabinets to fit it, and then I remembered I wanted to put in that dishwasher and paint, so figured…”
“You’d do it all at once?” Veva laughs, shaking her head. “I just don’t know where you find the time.”
All I have is time. Kira has five babies now—Noah and Oliver, growing up so fast, their single words turning into full sentences and demands. The other day, Oliver took Kira’s phone, ran into the backyard, and threw it into his kiddie pool.
She told me she and Dorian were so shocked they had to hide their laughter behind their hands while putting him in a time-out.
And the triplets, all just as fussy as the twins were as babies. The two of them just can’t catch a break.
Veva has her oldest, Sarina, who’s thirteen now, and also a baby. And Emaline just has the one, a precious little thing with wide eyes and a huge, gummy smile. He gets that from his father.
They’re all busy raising their children, building their families. And the best thing I have to fuss over is the flower garden behind my house.
When the silence stretches on for too long, Emaline clears her throat and shifts from side to side, saying, “We were wondering if you wanted to get margaritas with us?”
I should go. I’ve been in this house, between jobs, for too long.
