Page 3 of The Alpha's Arranged Mate

And with that comforting, if mildly irrational thought in mind, Lyrie found herself standing before the great building that housed the Council. She took a breath before she shifted, bracing herself to balance in her precarious two-legged form. Like most of the wolves of her pack, she preferred her four-legged body—but that didn’t mean she hadn’t trained with deadly efficiency in both forms. The wolf form might be stronger, but this body needed defending, too. Her shortsword was at her hip, and she touched it briefly before she strode into the Council building, bracing herself for what lay ahead.

There was something comforting about the bland bureaucracy of the Council. Dozens of robed Councilors hurried back and forth, emerging from corridors and disappearing through endless identical doors. The place had always put her in mind of some kind of vast insect nest. But she knew better than to underestimate the ferocious intelligence and strength of the wolves who worked here. To pledge your life to the Council was a great honor, offered to very few, and she reminded herself of that as she introduced herself to the young wolf manning the front desk.

With sunset already long past, Lyrie had expected to be shown to some quarters before whatever business she’d been brought here for took place in the morning. She was very surprised when the young man led her instead to a meeting room, dominated by an imposing carved wooden table. Around it sat half a dozen robed Councilors… but it wasn’t their hooded faces that drew her attention. It was the wolf who sat among them, broader across the shoulders than any of them. His dark brown hair was longer and shaggier than it had been last time she’d seen him, and there was a new weariness in his expression, but the faint half-smile in his eyes was just as it always had been, and Lyrie had to firmly suppress the instinct to yelp with delight and run to him like a little girl. She was twenty years old, she reminded herself firmly, Alpha of one of the oldest packs on Halforst, and she was not going to embarrass herself or her mentor in front of these Councilors.

“It’s good to see you, Alpha,” Darion rumbled, and she felt her heart glow at the still-unfamiliar title on his lips. “You made excellent time. You came alone?”

“I did,” she confirmed, glancing around at the Councilors. From the embroidery on their robes, she could tell that they were senior members of the staff—not that anyone outside the Council organization itself knew how to decipher the intricate hierarchy those patterns depicted.

“And the pack? Who’s left in your stead?”

“Westly,” she said, knowing he’d approve of her choice. Westly was a cousin of Darion’s, and if it hadn’t been for an old battle injury that had claimed the sight in his right eye, he’d have been one of the wolves on the mission to Kurivon. Sure enough, Darion nodded, his expression not changing—but Lyrie had always known how to read approval on that motionless face of his.

“Safe hands, then.”

“How fares Kurivon?” There was a seat at the end of the table which she moved into now, realizing belatedly that it had been left clear for her. “The last news we received was the pack’s safe arrival.”

The councilors exchanged looks, and for the first time Lyrie’s delight at seeing Darion flickered a little, anxiety nudging it aside long enough to wonder just why so many highly-ranking councilors had joined them for a meeting this late in the evening. Darion cleared his throat and leaned forward, his great forearms pressing into the wooden surface of the table.

“The pack is safe and settled. The demonic presence remains at bay after Renfrey led us to victory against the Hive. Two packs have been established on the island, with three still waiting for construction before they come through the portal.”

“Only two?” Lyrie frowned. “Has the schedule been changed, then?” The original plan had been for three of the five packs to have moved to Kurivon by now, taking advantage of the warm summer months to get themselves settled. Darion’s grimace told her everything she needed to know, but it was a councilor who coughed softly before continuing with the report.

“There are some—tensions,” the woman said delicately, her voice so soft it was barely audible. “Some difficulties with the wolves of the second pack.”

“Pack is an odd choice of word,” Darion put in, his expression dour. “They don’t operate like any self-respecting pack I’ve ever encountered. Earth wolves, every one of them.” There was a strange heaviness in Darion’s voice, a cutting edge to his words that Lyrie had rarely heard before. There was something going on here, she realized. Something deeper and more personal than the regular squabbles that took place between neighboring packs. “Obsessed with wealth and possession. The Alpha calls them acompanymore than he calls them a pack.”

“The situation is difficult,” the councilor pressed on. “Our lorekeepers are concerned that these fundamental differences may have disastrous ramifications when it comes to demonic presence on the island. Harmony is of utmost importance to the mission’s success and to the survival of every wolf on that island.”

Lyrie nodded, feeling a familiar weight in her chest. Demons were drawn to negative emotion—she knew that better than anyone. After all, it had been in the midst of a screaming argument that her parents had been ambushed. Just one unwary moment, that was all it had taken to orphan their five-year-old daughter.

“Lyrie doesn’t need to be reminded,” she heard Darion say, and felt a rush of gratitude for him. “She understands better than most just what’s at stake here.”

“Of course,” the councilor said softly. “Then we’ll move directly to the point. Alpha Darion has exhausted all but the most dire of options for resolving the tensions between the packs, all without success. Only the Old Rites remain.”

She took this in, keeping the uneasy flicker of dread from showing on her face. The Old Rites, the heaviest weight an Alpha carried. Darion had passed them down to her himself, back when she’d first pledged herself to him as his apprentice. A great honor, reserved for an Alpha’s successor—usually their children. It had been Darion’s father who had passed the old knowledge down to him. But Darion had no mate, no children of his own—and it was Lyrie he’d chosen to share that great weight. She ran through them in her mind, biting her lip. There were stories—dark, ancient stories—about warring packs that were only brought to peace when their leaders made the ultimate sacrifice. Surely Darion wasn’t thinking about…

“I’m hoping it’s not a Blood Rite that’s being considered,” she said finally, once the silence in the room had told her that no clarification would be forthcoming. “Even with the demonic presence weakened, such an event could be… cataclysmic.”

“Indeed. We want to avoid that at any cost,” Darion said, his expression shadowed. “Nevertheless, the situation is dire, our differences unresolvable. The Councilors have made a suggestion. I don’t like it much more than I like the Blood Rites, but I fail to see any other way forward.”

Lyrie frowned, eyes flicking to the Councilor who’d spoken. The elderly woman’s expression hadn’t changed. “We have suggested the Rite of Harmony.”

It took her a moment to recall that particular entry, and she almost let a laugh escape her before she reminded herself where she was. Still, it was hard not to interpret the suggestion as a joke. The Rite of Harmony… it had always felt so unserious, included among so many dire and bloody traditions. “An arranged match?” she said, hoping the skepticism didn’t show too clearly on her face. “Are there soulmates, then, among the wolves on the island?” An inauspicious start to their lives together, she thought faintly, imagining what it would be like to find your soulmate among the wolves of an enemy pack. Still, if your bond could serve to bury that conflict once and for all…

Darion cleared his throat. “Unlikely.”

“There’s no requirement for participants in the Rite to be soulmates,” one of the Councilors clarified, an old man with a deep, sonorous voice. “In fact, some precedent suggests that the Rite is more powerful if the match isnotmagical in nature. When both wolves choose the pairing for the sake of the packs, not their own feelings—that is when the Rite is most powerful.”

Lyrie nodded slowly. “I understand. A match between two wolves, one from each side of the dispute, their relationship a symbol of the new harmony between the packs.” She waited, sure that the implied question was obvious enough that someone would step in—but the silence stretched, and Lyrie cleared her throat. “How will the wolves be selected? Will you ask for volunteers?”

“It can’t be just anyone,” Darion said, and she could hear a heaviness in his voice that unnerved her. He didn’t like what he was about to say, that much was clear. “They have to be an integral part of the pack, ranked highly enough that the enemy’s bond with them can represent a bond with the heart of the pack itself. An Alpha is ideal.”

Lyrie felt her heart skip a beat, and forced down a rising wave of panic that came from a place in her heart she preferred not to think about. Darion was her Alpha, her closest friend, her mentor… but there were some distinctly confusing feelings about him that she kept firmly under wraps. Unprofessional feelings. Inappropriate feelings. Feelings that were rearing their ugly heads now, whispering that Darion was about to match himself to some woman from this enemy pack just to keep the peace. “Then—you’ll be taking part in the Rite yourself, Darion?” She forced her voice to stay level and calm.

“If it were possible, I would,” Darion said grimly.

“The structure of the other pack is—unconventional, as we mentioned,” the deep-voiced Councilor interjected. “Most of its members find the source of their loyalty in wealth and material gain, not in true allegiance to the packs’ goals. No wolf suitable for the Rite would be a compatible match for Darion. The pack’s Alpha, however, could be matched … with you.”

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