Page 13 of The Alpha's Arranged Mate

He spoke in his usual manner, free and light, but there was something about the stillness of his body that told her there was more going on here than met the eye. She took a seat on the chair closest to his, her knees almost brushing against his as she adjusted the towel around herself. She’d pulled her hair into two braids, and they were dripping water down her front where they rested against her collarbones. The silence hummed between them, broken only by the lapping of the pool water and the low roar of the ocean beyond.

“You seem tired,” Lyrie said, after dismissing a few more adversarial options. “Did the meeting not go well?”

“Well, Darion hit me in the face,” he said, a humorless smile quirking his lips a little. “So, I wouldn’t call it the best meeting ever. Or the worst,” he added, but Lyrie was frowning.

“He hit you? Before the other Alphas? Before Renfrey?” Her heart was thudding in her chest. Lesser things had been interpreted as acts of war. Was the situation about to become even more complex?

“No, the hitting took place afterwards.” He rubbed his forehead. “He hit me as a brother, not as an Alpha. Things between our packs are—better than they have been, honestly. Renfrey was very interested in your theory about inter-pack communication, by the way. I think we’re going to put some of into action—”

But Lyrie shook her head impatiently. Right now, the tension on the worksite was the least of her concern. “Tell me why Darion hit you.”

Reeve hesitated. “We were talking about you,” he said reluctantly, and she sat very still, suddenly wishing it wasn’t so dark out here so she could make out his expression better. “He feels I’ve been a less than ideal host to you, Lyrie. And he’s right.”

She felt a confusing rush of feelings at that. Chief among them was a giddy warmth at the idea that Darion had spoken to Reeve on her behalf, that he’d felt strongly enough about her to actually strike his brother… but underneath that was concern about the potential consequences of the relationship between the two of them deteriorating any further than it already had. She was here to help mend the divide, not to accelerate it.

“I know you’re unhappy here,” he said, gesturing around at the yacht. “And I don’t know what I can do about that. I don’t know how to reconcile our ways of life. You’ll be miserable if we stay here, I’ll be miserable if we live out in the woods, hunting wild game and making our own clothes like in the olden days. None of it—fits. I never wanted this, Lyrie. I want peace, but not at the cost of ruining both our lives.”

She looked at him for a long moment, recalibrating her impression of him. She’d thought the cocksure, aloof impression he gave was a reflection of who he was, but the dejected man sitting before her was a far cry from the arrogant, privileged wolf she imagined when she thought of him. Darion had spent years teaching her to perfect her mask, to hide herself from the world when she needed to. He was an expert. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to her that his brother had had the same training.

“There’s a way out of this, you know,” she said, surprising herself with the gentleness of her voice. He looked up, a bitter smile on his face.

“What, run away? Bring the wrath of the lorekeepers down on us?”

“No. In the Rite itself.” She closed her eyes, reaching into the part of her mind that stored that ancient memory, passed down through hundreds of generations. “The Rite is supposed to be… consummated, in the days that follow the ceremony.” She wasn’t blushing, she told herself firmly. And even if she was, it was too dark out here for anyone to notice. Reeve looked a little uncomfortable, too. It wasn’t exactly a subject they’d discussed—she saw him shift back from her a little, deliberately avert his eyes.

“I didn’t want you to feel like you… had to.” He grimaced. “This is all strange enough without adding that kind of pressure to the mix. I’m a stranger to you—not to mention old enough to be your father.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she heard herself say, then bit her lip hard enough to hurt. Why hadthatslipped out? “What I mean,” she pressed on, as if hoping he might not notice what she’d said if she spoke fast enough, “is that if the Rite isn’t consummated, it can be dissolved.”

“Dissolved,” Reeve said cautiously. “As in—we’re not pledged to each other any longer?”

She nodded, wishing she could read his expression a little better. He didn’t look as relieved as she’d expected. “The traditional timeframe is three moons,” she added, glancing upward to where the waning moon gleamed in the sky.

“So if we can keep this up for three months, you’re saying … we can break it off? You can go back to your pack on Halforst?”

She nodded, feeling uneasy about what she was telling him. It was clear the lorekeepers hadn’t thought to fill him in on that particular part of the ritual—perhaps because they wanted him to make the commitment without the caveat that it could be reversed. “Of course, once the bond is dissolved, the political ramifications…”

“Of course. We’d want to make sure the conflict is well and truly over before we tell everyone that we’re not soulmates any more. But three months is a long time, and with your ideas about getting the wolves working together on the construction sites…” He breathed out, and she could see the relief in his body. Strange, that she didn’t feel the same way at all. It was almost as though his response had hurt her feelings. Surely that couldn’t be right.

“It’s still a risk,” she pointed out. Reeve nodded.

“I understand. But I’d rather take that risk than spend the rest of my life torturing you, Lyrie.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again. Some part of her wanted to protest the idea that he was torturing her, but the words stuck in her throat. He was looking at her curiously, waiting for her to speak, and she rose to her feet abruptly, not liking how out of control she was feeling. “Good,” she heard herself say, her voice brittle and sharp. “I’m glad I could put your mind at ease. Just three months before you’ll be rid of me.”

She’d turned to go, but she wasn’t expecting to feel his hand catch her by the arm. The momentum of her own body turned back on her and spun her around, and she felt herself collide with Reeve’s chest, his arms automatically coming up around her to stop her from stumbling further. The sound of her name on his lips disappeared in the sudden roaring of her pulse, her whole body shivering with what felt like the flare of magic that accompanied a shift… but she was still decidedly two-legged when she felt Reeve’s lips against hers.

It was like being struck by some great force. All of a sudden, the maelstrom inside of her, the sea of confusing and conflicting feelings—it was all utterly calm. Every part of her was focused in the same direction now, all of that whirling force consolidating into one fierce, burning point of absolute attention… which was the man with his arms wrapped around her and his lips burning against hers. She felt herself lean into his embrace, and her hands, flat against his chest to steady herself, tightened in the loose fabric of his partially-unbuttoned shirt. Beneath that flimsy cloth, she could feel the heat of his broad chest, the thudding of his pulse in his veins, the magic of his wolf howling in harmony with hers. How could she ever have thought of this body as a lesser alternative to her wolf’s? Her fur had never felt so sensitive as this, had never tingled so delightfully at the brush of skin against skin… possessively, she deepened the kiss, suddenly worried he was going to pull away from her, that he might do something as unforgivably stupid as trying to talk to her.

She needn’t have worried. With a low growl, Reeve pulled her closer against him, and she felt him tug the towel from her shoulders and toss it into the darkness. A dull splash told her it had landed in the pool, but neither of them spared a glance for it. His hands were roaming across her body unchecked now, and she couldn’t help but utter a breathy little moan as each caress found new territory, new places where her skin tingled and hummed underneath his touch. Well, if they were playing that game… she grinned against his lips as she ripped his shirt from his shoulders, hearing the buttons clatter and skid across the deck. She half expected him to protest—she’d seen how fussy he was with his clothing—but the man in her arms wasn’t interested in anything but her. She felt the heat in her belly intensify as he ripped the rest of the shirt free himself, tossing it after the towel without a second glance.

There was no question of getting back to either of their rooms—her bed might as well have been on the other side of the world for all the interest she had in traversing the long corridors to get back to it. What did they need a private room for? The deck was deserted, and it wasn’t as though they were close enough to the mainland for any curious souls to make out what they were doing here… Lyrie was surprised by how quickly her breath was coming, how hard her heart was pounding in her chest. She wasn’t alone, though. Running a hand across the taut muscle of Reeve’s chest, she could feel his heart thudding against his ribcage, feel the caress of his breath against her skin as he pressed hungry, devouring kisses to her cheek, her throat, her collarbones. She kept swaying on her feet, half-drunk on the giddy rush of his touch, her body howling at her to satisfy a need she’d never felt before. Or had she? The heady scent of his body in her nose, the heat of his touch… this wasn’t new, she realized dizzily. This desire had been lingering in her subconscious ever since he’d pulled that veil free from her eyes and revealed himself to her.

And in that breathless moment, she knew that no matter their resemblance, what she felt for Reeve was nothing at all like what she felt for Darion.

Again proving himself stronger than she’d given him credit for, Reeve tightened his embrace and lifted her into his arms, and Lyrie buried her face against his throat, shivering a little at the soft rasp of his stubble. Somehow he maneuvered the two of them down onto one of the deckchairs, his powerful arms easing her carefully back until she was lying beneath him with the cool wooden slats of the chair pressing against her shoulders. For a moment, they held each other’s eyes. Reeve was breathing hard, his lips parted, and his hair… a grin spread across her face, and she reached up to run her fingers through those tousled locks. Finally, she’d seen his meticulously arranged hair in disarray… and he couldn’t have looked more perfect.

Then he was kissing her again, hungry, devouring, as though the brief intermission had left him so starved for her he was in danger of perishing. His hands were roaming across her body, skating down her sides, lighting fire after fire every time he got closer to the tops of her thighs. Her undergarments were long gone, probably consigned to the same fate as his slacks—all that separated them now was the thin fabric of the boxer shorts he was wearing, through which she could well and truly feel the hard press of his manhood. Every casual brush drew the most deliciously sexy groan out of him, and it wasn’t long before Lyrie’s fingers were sliding beneath his waistband, enjoying the way his body shuddered and his hips jerked involuntarily at the friction of her fingers.

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