Page 16 of The Alpha's Arranged Mate

Syrra nodded, her expression serious. “Are you thinking of taking the non-consummation exit?”

She supposed it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the island’s most senior lorekeeper knew the intricacies of the Rite. “We’ve talked about it,” she said cautiously, keeping the wider context of that conversation to herself. “I’m worried that backing out of the match will put the whole island back to square one, though. The dissolution could stir up the tension again.”

“That’s not necessarily what would happen,” Syrra pointed out, frowning gently. “Three months is still a long time, and it’s clear that the work you’ve done even over the last couple of weeks is having a big impact. By the time you announce the dissolution of the bond, it might be that there’ll be no tension left to stir up.”

“Maybe,” Lyrie said softly, frowning into her teacup. That had been her hope, hadn’t it—but that had also been before the non-consummation part of the situation had been thrown into such profound jeopardy. “I don’t know. I can’t say I’ve made my mind up yet, Syrra. And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this between us, for now.”

“Of course, Lyrie. That goes without saying.” Syrra smiled, leaning forward to squeeze her hand affectionately before she rose to her feet and started clearing away the teacups. “You’ll make whatever choice is best, of that I have no doubt. And there’s nothing wrong with delaying that choice until you’ve gotten all the information. Who knows? Maybe he’ll show you a new side of himself before the three months are up.”

Lyrie nearly choked on her tea, shooting a very sharp glance towards Syrra—but the lorekeeper was humming as she carried the tray back towards the library. Lyrie forced her heartbeat to settle before she followed her inside, willing herself to calm down. It had been a joke, that was all. Just a little joke that happened to strike right at the heart of what was actually going on.

She lay awake in her bed for a long time that night, staring at the ceiling and gnawing on her lower lip. Could Syrra be right? Was there a way she could just—admit that the relationship had been consummated, stay in this deeply weird situation for the rest of her life? She was getting more and more comfortable with the yacht, with the strange surroundings—she’d even learned a few scraps of English from Reeve’s construction workers on the mainland, which had given her enough to exchange pleasantries with the domestic staff on board. The idea of living here for good no longer felt as utterly untenable as it once had.

But that didn’t matter, did it? Reeve had made it abundantly clear, that night, that he was suffering just as much as she was as a result of this whole situation. He didn’t want her here on his yacht, interfering with his running of his pack, getting underfoot and bothering his staff. She still remembered how relieved he’d looked when she’d told him that there was a way out of their agreement, the way a huge weight had seemed to lift from his shoulders. She wasn’t anything to him but a hindrance, she told herself firmly, trying to make herself confront the strange sadness that that knowledge engendered in her. Sure, they’d had sex, but that didn’t mean he saw her as a genuine prospect for a partner. He’d said it himself—she was half his age, far too young to be of any interest to him on that level. Best for her to get out of his way while she still could, so that when he eventually met his no doubt age-appropriate soulmate, there wouldn’t be some weird young woman skulking around on his yacht, cramping his style…

That was the first night that she didn’t dream of their night together. Instead, she had a long, dreadful nightmare in which she was walking in absolute solitude through a thick, foggy wasteland, waiting for a promised rescuer, growing more and more despondent with the realization that nobody was coming. When she woke up, heavy with sadness, she couldn’t decide what was worse—this strange grief, or the torturously vivid memories of the night she’d spent in Reeve’s bed.

It had been a month almost to the day since the ceremony on the day that they gathered on the mainland to celebrate the erection of a residence. There were dozens more to be built in that stage of the development alone, so there wouldn’t be this kind of a to-do every time a cottage was finished, but it still felt good to stand among the intermingled members of both packs, raising a glass in celebration of a job well done. They were still well behind schedule, of course, something that hadn’t been lost on a weary-looking Reeve, but spirits were still high as the wolves finished their toast then broke off into groups to chat. Lyrie noticed, as she picked her way through the crowd to join Syrra at its far edge, that more than a few of those groups contained wolves from both packs.

“Have you noticed?” Syrra said in an undertone, nodding towards the nearest gaggle of wolves.

“That there are inter-pack friendships forming?”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that. Listen to them. What language are they speaking?”

Lyrie did as she was told, hearing the familiar strains of her own language—but then she frowned as a second wolf broke in. Half of what he’d said was clear, but the other half was strangely accented vocabulary she didn’t recognize. “What are they—”

“They’re starting to combine the languages,” Syrra said, her eyes bright. “It’s brilliant, really. Renfrey thinks it’s helping both groups learn to communicate twice as fast, and it means that everyone understands at least a bit of what’s being said.”

Lyrie was stunned. Some part of her wanted to take offense on behalf of her language, to correct what sounded like a bastardization of the right way of speaking. But then she heard the wolves burst out into laughter—the whole group, wolves from both packs laughing together. “Darion’s going to hate that,” she said quietly, and the smile on Syrra’s face faded a little.

“He’s going to hate seeing his pack getting on with his brother’s?”

“He’s going to hate hearing his wolves speaking their language incorrectly.” She gnawed on her lower lip. Darion had made a quick departure from the ceremony, which wasn’t unusual—he’d never been much of a fan of socializing for its own sake. She wondered if he knew about the strange new combination language that his pack were beginning to speak… and if so, whether her suspicions were right about how he’d feel about it. She lifted her hand to stifle a yawn, grimacing a little at how tired she felt so early in the day.

“You alright?”

“Just tired,” she said, frowning. “Haven’t been sleeping well lately, I guess.” That much was true, at least… if her sleep wasn’t being disrupted by the troublesome memories of her night with Reeve, she was being haunted by grim, stressful nightmares in which everything that could possibly go wrong with the construction site all went wrong at once. In last night’s dream, three entire cottages had been swallowed whole by a demon that had emerged from the ocean. But Syrra was still looking at her, more intently than before. “What?”

“Nothing,” the lorekeeper said quickly. Then: “Walk down to the beach with me, would you? I think I’d like some fresh air.”

Thoroughly mystified, but knowing better than to challenge Syrra on what was clearly a request to speak with her in private, Lyrie followed her friend down the winding path that led through the trees and out onto the beach. Once they were there, Syrra pulled her a little further along, right down to the end of the beach where the sand gave way to a great heap of rocks.

“What’s going on?” Lyrie asked, unable to quell an irrational fear that Syrra had somehow figured out what had happened between her and Reeve and was about to haul her before all the other lorekeepers for punishment. But what she said instead was somehow even more shocking.

“I’m just going to come out and say it,” she said, half to herself. Then: “Lyrie, is there a chance you could be pregnant?”

She stared at her, her surprise so complete she didn’t even think to mask the emotion. “What? Why?”

Syrra’s blue eyes closed for a moment. “It was your aura. Sorry. It’s a terrible lorekeeper habit, we genuinely do try only to look when we’ve asked expressly for permission first. There’s a lot of rather private information you can glean from… and well, most of us can do it pretty well, when we need to. A dear old friend of mine had the real gift, I’ve always been pretty average, but—that’s not important. Anyway. I just—just back there, something made me just… sneak a peek. Again, I’m sorry.”

“My aura,” Lyrie said faintly, not following. “What does that have to do with…?”

“I could be wrong,” Syrra said quickly. “I’ve been wrong before. But Lyrie… when I looked at your aura, I saw two of them.”

Chapter 11 - Reeve

As the days turned into weeks, Reeve couldn’t figure out exactly why he was so intensely aware of the looming three-month deadline. On the one hand, he was looking forward to it—to knowing that Lyrie would be free to go where she liked and do what she pleased, to have her life given back to her after being trapped by this absurd ritual. On the other hand, part of him knew that once the three months were up, she’d almost certainly be leaving him alone on his yacht again. It was strange, the way he’d gotten used to her being around. After the night they didn’t speak of, he’d done his best to make himself scarce for a week or two, figuring that she wouldn’t want to see him… but then, slowly but surely, he started seeing more of her.

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