Page 24 of The Alpha's Arranged Mate

“Why’d you bring that stupid thing anyway,” Reeve panted, a few rounds later, as he staggered narrowly clear of a blow from the great two-hander.

“Why’dyoubring a sewing needle?” Darion snapped back, so fast that Reeve realized he must have prepared the response ahead of time. Maybe it was the heat and adrenalin making him delirious, but the thought of his brother rehearsing a witty comeback between rounds tickled him so much that he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Darion glowered at him, clearly torn between pressing what seemed like an advantage—and the suspicion that it was a trap.

“Sewing needle, good one,” Reeve gasped, performing a pointless little flourish with the sword more for the purpose of refocusing his own mind than intimidating Darion. “You knew I was gonna make fun of you for bringing that, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. That’s why I brought it,” Darion grumbled, half to himself. There was an odd softness in his voice that made Reeve hesitate instead of pressing the advantage of his brother’s clear distraction… and then the bell separated them again. But as the afternoon wore on and Reeve felt his own mind growing more delirious with dehydration, stress and adrenaline, so too could he see the cracks appearing in Darion’s armor. His brother was losing it. First, Reeve noticed him muttering to himself in short, nonsensical phrases. That was strange enough. But then his volume kept creeping up, and before too long, Reeve was picking up whole sentences. Darion seemed barely aware that he was speaking. His great body dripping with sweat, he maintained that rigid, perfect guard despite his visible physical deterioration, blood from a couple of Reeve’s luckier feints now decorating the sword’s grip.

Trust Darion to maintain perfect physical precision while losing his whole damn mind.

It almost felt rude to listen to what he was saying. For a while, Reeve thought he was talking to Trinn, which at least made sense, given that the old man was standing ten feet away with a bell in his hands. Then he realized that he was talking to their mother, who they’d lost when they were barely ten years old. Unwillingly, he heard snatches of conversation directed to their father, to other members of the pack, to Lyrie at what sounded like a dozen different ages—he went from telling her to pick up her toys to warning her about proper maintenance of her weaponry in the space of the same sentence, and Reeve couldn’t bring himself to tell his brother she wasn’t there. He needed to save his breath, he told himself… but the truth was, he knew if he spoke that truth aloud he might start to lose his mind a little, too.

“I never believed you’d actually leave,” Darion said suddenly, and though his silver eyes were staring right through Reeve the way they had been for the last two hours, a strange feeling came over him. “I thought you were bluffing, right up to the end. And then you left, and you never came back. Left me alone, like half a wolf. Half a wolf, trying to be as strong as two.”

“What are you talking about?” Reeve panted. His hand tightened around the grip of his sword, worried that this was a trick designed to get him to drop his guard. Well, it was working. He’d never heard his brother say anything like this. But before he could press the issue, the bell rang, and he ground his teeth as he hastened back to his stupid little corner of the battlefield to shift form. There was no sense trying to communicate with Darion in this form—his mind was like a fortress, closed against any kind of telepathic contact, and Reeve forced himself to stay vigilant, steering clear of his brother’s attacks as he waited out the clock until they were human-shaped again.

“Say that again,” he asked Darion when they were face to face, breathing hard. “All that stuff about when I left.”

“You’re not going to leave,” Darion said, a strange lightness in his voice. “Not without me, you’re not. We’re brothers. We love each other. We give each other hell and we make each other stronger.”

“Darion, did you really not believe me when I told you I was leaving?” He lowered his sword a few inches, acutely aware of Trinn’s listening ear and disapproving stare, unable to bring himself to care. “Are you—upset with me?”

“He didn’t even say sorry, Mother,” Darion whispered to nobody, flexing both hands around the grip of his great sword. For a moment, he looked so lost and so sad that Reeve was on the brinkof dropping his blade and embracing him. But then, with absolutely no warning, he lunged. Reeve barely had time to scream before he felt the blade bite deeply into the muscle of his right shoulder, tearing a wound across his back that stopped just short of his neck. Had he really fallen for a ruse like that? But there was no sign of triumph or even recognition in his brother’s eyes. Darion was fighting on autopilot, stray syllables still spilling from his lips as he dragged himself upright again. His mind wasn’t there.

And that didn’t matter, Reeve realized as the awful, wet heat of blood ran down his back from what he could tell was a serious wound. Out of his mind or not, Darion was absolutely going to kill him. And by the look of the blood dripping to the sand at his feet, it was going to be sooner rather than later.

Chapter 16 - Lyrie

It was a few hours before dawn when Lyrie entered her fugue state in earnest. She hadn’t left the library for an entire day before that—Syrra had given up on trying to coax her back to the cottage even to eat or change her clothes, and had started instead just leaving food and water on the table where she would occasionally take an absent-minded bite or sip while flipping pages. As long as there were still books left unscoured, there was still hope. Sleep was absolutely out of the question. The battle was set to begin at dawn—right now, she could barely afford to blink, let alone close her eyes for any longer.

Lyrie had expected that despair might claim her once the sun rose. But as the gray light crept through the window behind her, to her surprise she only felt more determined. Let the duel begin. With all the reading she’d been doing about the Blood Rite, and with what she’d learned about the stubbornness of both combatants (especially in the last few months), she knew the battle would wear on for hours. Syrra kept moving in and out of the library like a watchful ghost, but the lorekeeper knew better than to interrupt her. Later, she knew, she’d owe the woman an apology and a great deal of gratitude. But later didn’t exist right now. Only the page before her eyes, only the next book. Somewhere in this heap of dusty records that dated back to the first days that wolves had begun to write down their ancestral memories, she would find the solution to the impossible problem of the irreversible battle to the death that even now was wearing on.

Don’t think about the time. Don’t think about how high the sun must be in the sky by now. Don’t think about how many injuries have been dealt, don’t think about which of them is suffering worse in the heat, definitely don’t think about how many of the old stories about Blood Rites mention both combatants, not just one, succumbing to their wounds. Precedent, that was all she needed. Something in one of these stupid, maddening old books that she could pin her argument on. They’d proven they wouldn’t listen to reason. They’d proven that the madness of tradition was their ultimate authority, outpacing even their love for their packs… and their love for her. She’d have time for that pain to hit her later. For now, all that mattered was using their deadly obsession with tradition to save them from themselves.

Mid-afternoon, judging by the stifling heat in the library. The squeak of the front doors drew her attention but not her gaze—but then Syrra’s voice disturbed the quiet, low and urgent. For a moment, Lyrie’s disorientation stopped her from understanding. Maybe that would have been a mercy.

“Lyrie, it’s now.”

“What?” Her voice barely rasped out of her—she coughed to clear her throat, grabbed a long-discarded glass of water from the table and rinsed her dry mouth with it. Syrra was shifting from foot to foot.

“They’re saying it’s nearly over.”

Sheer, black dread threatened, for a moment, to engulf her. But instead of collapsing, she rocketed to her feet. “I don’t have enough. I don’t—” She gestured to her woefully small pile of books, three slim, dusty volumes that contained the faint glimmer of hope. “This won’t convince them—”

“Lyrie, at this point, even slowing them down is better than nothing. Give me what you’ve got. I’ll go. Maybe I can buy you an extra hour—”

“It has to be me,” she said, shaking her head. “If this is going to work, it has to be me.”

“Then it has to be now,” Syrra said simply. “Finish that first.”

Lyrie drained the glass of water automatically before bundling her books into her arms. Syrra had a knack for making her instructions seem like the path of least resistance—useful in her leadership role on the island, but useful, too, as a mother. Some strange association twinged, deep down in her mind, and she found herself thinking of a moment earlier in the week, back when it had felt like they had all the time in the world. Renfrey had brought the twins by to visit them during a lunchtime break, and with characteristic curiosity, they’d asked for a story from one of the dusty old books piled up on the table. Dry as they all were, Syrra had managed to find one that had a few pictures, and she livened up the subject matter as best as she could. Lyrie had only been half-listening—she’d been on a promising line of enquiry at the time, and the laughter of the children had been a distraction more than anything else.

“Syrra. That book of old songs that you were singing to the kids. Where is it?”

Syrra, the world’s best research assistant, didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at the request. She moved over to the table and rummaged through the uneven piles until she pulled out a familiar book with a golden cover. “This one?”

“Yes.” Lyrie took a quick step towards Syrra to take the book from her—then closed her eyes as she felt the room swaying around her. The lorekeeper’s hand was firm on her elbow, steadying her, and when the wave of dizziness passed Syrra was already pressing a piece of fruit into her hand.

“All of this will have been for nothing if you pass out halfway through town,” Syrra said sharply. “Eatandread.”

---