Page 7 of The Alpha's Arranged Mate

Taking long walks around the island was pleasant, at least. Kurivon—the eponymous island in Kurivon Archipelago and its largest member—was a pleasing shape on all the maps. It was a great round shape with a slight taper in its middle, forming a northern and southern bulge with a narrower ‘waist’ that was ringed by sandy beach. At the northernmost and southernmost ends of the island, the shore climbed steeply into cliffs that jutted out over the more turbulent seas. The cliffs were what drew her, again and again, especially at the northernmost end of the island, where the great expanse of the sea was uninterrupted by any of the other islands that composed the archipelago. Here, she could stand and look right out over an ocean that stretched out an impossibly vast distance.

Would she ever get used to that sight, she wondered? She’d spent her whole life in the temperate forests on Halforst’s outskirts, and the largest body of water she’d ever encountered was a lake that could be circumnavigated in less than an hour. Standing on the cliff’s edge, the wind whipping at her thick pelt, she could close her eyes and savor the sharpness of the salty sea breeze. It was peaceful enough to ease her troubled mind, at least for a little while… but then thoughts of the ceremony would come creeping back in and draw her back towards the settlement.

The day of the ceremony dawned bright and clear. Lyrie pulled herself out of her makeshift bed when the warmth of daylight touched the windowsill. Sleep had been impossible the night before, but she’d laid still with her eyes closed regardless. Darion had always taught her that the body could rest even when the mind couldn’t, that pacing the floor was a wasteful habit that would only make the lack of sleep more punishing. Thinking of his gruff instructions usually gave her strength, but she was dismayed to feel an uneasy prickling of tears behind her eyes instead as she looked upon the ridiculous garment she’d be expected to wear. It was just for today, she told herself over and over as she began to reluctantly remove her own sleeping clothes. One day of humiliation, then she’d return to her own practical garments… or better yet, came a rebellious whisper, stay wolf-shaped for a whole year to do away with the need for clothes entirely. That would show her new mate, wouldn’t it? From what Darion had said about him, the man spent far too much time on two legs. She’d no doubt be expected to do the same, in the course of her duty to spend time with him… grimacing, she tightened a garter a little too hard, yelping as it threatened to cut off the circulation.

Syrra came to fetch her not long after she’d risen. The lorekeeper looked strikingly beautiful in her own formal regalia, the robes of her office offset by dozens of pieces of ornate jewelry decorated with runes, only a handful of which Lyrie could recognize. Her waist was cinched by a plain belt, which holstered a short scabbard, perhaps a little longer than a standard dagger. The handle that extended from the scabbard was old and worn, an off-white color, carved deeply with yet more runes. Lyrie could feel the magic emanating from the humble weapon even from across the room, and it was with new respect that she met Syrra’s blue-eyed gaze. She may not have been a wolf, but it was clear that the ancient magic lived in her as much as it did in Lyrie.

This new respect for the island’s chief lorekeeper kept her turbulent emotions at bay, or at least served as a distraction for a short time. Layer by layer, Syrra helped her put on the elaborate gown, her voice low and soft as she murmured the relevant blessings. Lyrie wondered whether her betrothed was undergoing rituals this elaborate in preparation for their union, but she didn’t want to interrupt Syrra to ask. Besides, it felt like rather a churlish question. She had to proceed as though Reeve was taking this whole process as seriously as she was, even if everything she knew about him suggested that that wasn’t going to be the case. How could a man who’d abandoned the old ways take due care in the execution of a rite this ancient? Lyrie steadied her breathing as they made their way down the library steps, Syrra’s hand lightly supporting her as she moved gingerly in the unfamiliar garment. The only thing she could control was her own actions. One thing was certain—whatever happened today, her part of the ritual would be executed absolutely flawlessly.

There was a long, slow procession before the ceremony itself, during which more and more wolves joined a growing train of followers walking behind Syrra and Lyrie. It felt like they’d circled the island a dozen times before they finally found their way to the final pathway, which was strewn with native flowers and led through the trees to where the other party would be waiting. Lyrie was surprised to realize that the ceremony would be taking place on the edge of the northern cliffs, the very place she’d spent the most time over the last few days. Had they arranged things this way for her, or was it just a pleasant coincidence?

“Last checks,” Syrra murmured, reaching up to adjust the troublesome headpiece that was perched atop Lyrie’s head. Even woven through with strands of her hair as it was, the headband had threatened to fall several times on their walk, and Lyrie wanted nothing more than to snap it in two and toss it away. Instead, she waited patiently as Syrra lowered the thin, gauzy fabric of the veil over her face… then another layer, then another. The symbolism of the veil was, like many parts of the Rite, ancient and abstruse—her best understanding was that it had to do with embracing the impossibility of seeing the future, and focusing only on what lay before you. Practically speaking, though, it was a nightmare. Lyrie did her best to meditate on the more philosophical interpretation of being blinded by rustling fabric as she walked blindly onwards, grateful to have Syrra’s arm to grip tightly. The roar of the ocean was getting closer and closer, and she could feel the crunching of loose pebbles beneath her shoes. Just when she thought they were certainly about to plunge over the edge of the cliff and into the sea, she felt Syrra stop, and gently press on her arm until she turned at an angle.

From the hushed silence that fell over the crowd behind them, Lyrie could only surmise that she was standing in front of her betrothed. She tilted her head gamely, but there was absolutely no helping the fact that she couldn’t see a blasted thing through the veils. All she could make out was the distant glow of sunlight, and even that was blurry. She could have been looking at a brick wall… that was, until she felt warm skin brush against hers, tugging her hands gently forward. Unfamiliar fingers interlaced with hers, and she found herself holding her breath at this first moment of contact with her future soulmate. It could have been worse. His hands were warm and strong, not slick with sweat or clammy as she’d dreaded. Only half-listening to Renfrey, who was somewhere beside her speaking the words of the Rite to the gathered wolves, she moved her hands a little, hoping it would seem like she was trying to take a more comfortable grip. She found what she was looking for. Soft hands, yes, and well manicured… but she could feel the unmistakable press of old calluses, exactly where you’d grip a sword. That was something, at least.

The ritual wore on. Lyrie’s neck was itchy with sweat and she couldn’t wait to braid her hair again—today the thick red mane was spilling unbound down her back, and she knew the tangles would already be out of this world. Reeve’s hands only left hers to lift the veil, frustratingly slowly—one layer at a time. By the time just one veil remained, she could make out the outline of him, dark against the brighter sky behind him. Tall, like the other Alphas. About Darion’s height, actually. Lyrie was a tall woman, but Darion had always towered over her.

The ritual was coming to a close. She recognized the final words of the blessing, heard the gathered wolves murmuring them along with Renfrey in unison that would symbolize their commitment to the joining of these two wolves together. At this time, the instructions of the Rite had told her, she would cease to be just herself—she would carry the hearts and minds of her pack within her, their eyes looking through hers, just as packs did when they shared minds to hunt or to fight. She took a deep breath as Reeve’s hands left hers for the final time. He was about to lift the final veil and look at her face for the first time—her face, and the faces of her whole pack.

The light behind him dazzled her for a moment when the veil finally came free, but she resisted the urge to wince and blink, keeping herself deliberately still as her vision adjusted. Then she was looking at … wait. Her brow furrowed despite her determination to keep her expression blank. That was—why was Darion standing in front of her? Was this some kind of joke? A wild, demented hope leapt burning to life in her heart, and she was too surprised to press it down. To be pledged to Darion as his soulmate would be infinitely preferable to the alternative—

But then she blinked, and her vision cleared a little as she looked more closely at the man before her. Dark brown hair, ever so slightly silvered at the temples… cool silver eyes that held hers with an almost palpable intensity… a fine, straight nose, and a pair of lips quirked in an expression that was part smile, part smirk. The man before her was the spitting image of Darion, but her mentor had never worn an expression like that in his life. She stood in stunned silence as Renfrey continued the words of the blessing, unable to break eye contact with the most familiar stranger she’d ever seen. And over and over, the same thought kept whirling through her utterly shellshocked mind.

Why—why—whyhadn’t Darion mentioned that Reeve was his twin brother?

Chapter 5 - Reeve

She was so young. That was all Reeve could think as the language of the ceremony became a dull, irritating drone in the back of his mind. When he’d first seen her walking so slowly and regally down the pathway towards where he and the other Alphas stood ready for the ceremony, he’d imagined she must have been his age at least, if not older—her height, the way she moved with such poise despite the elaborate garment they’d draped her in, even the way she lifted her head when she stood before him. Despite the comparative vulnerability of her position, half-blinded by the veil as she was, there had been no hint of shyness or unease in the firm grip of her hands in his. A crackle of electricity had run down his spine at the contact, the way she almost seemed to be sizing him up with a squeeze of his hands.

And then he’d pulled the veil down, and looked into the face of a child.

Not a child, he admonished himself as the ceremony continued. They’d told him she was twenty, hadn’t they? And anyone with the mettle to be Alpha at such a young age could hardly be called immature. He watched the way she tightened her jaw, watched the vulnerable mixture of shock and confusion drain from her face and be replaced by a mask of stoicism so familiar it almost made him laugh. If there had been any doubt that Lyrie was a disciple of Darion’s, it was gone now. How many times had he watched his brother hide his feelings away behind a mask just like that one?

The ceremony dragged on, minute by irritating minute. Even when the words had been said and the majority of the crowd had been dispersed, there was more of it to go—more quiet reflection, more blessings, more drawing of runes into the sandy soil then allowing the wind to blow them away. Reeve was absolutely sick of quietly reflecting. He’d been playing along with all this nonsense for the last two weeks, ever since that last meeting of the Council of Alphas. He might not have been so quick to agree to all of this had he known just how much stupid homework would be involved. What was especially galling was that the island’s lorekeepers were unanimous in their opinion that nobody in his pack was suitable to guide him through the preparation process… and so he’d been saddled with none other than Trinn, his old enemy and trainer, who had watched over every second of his preparation with a beady eye.

At long last, they began the tedious procession back from the cliff’s edge to the old library, where a reception of sorts had been organized. The Rite, to his great relief, didn’t have detailed instructions about what took place at the ceremony’s afterparty—only that each member of both packs ought to be invited, and that everyone should enjoy themselves as much as possible. That part, at least, was going to be easy. After the interminable ceremony they’d all just sat through, afuneralwould have been fun by comparison. And Reeve had made sure, with a few well-placed calls to his sources on the mainland, that the party was well catered.

His new soulmate was lingering on the edge of his vision. She had a soldier’s instinct for exactly where his peripheral vision ended and kept disappearing into his blind spot. They hadn’t exchanged words beyond what was required by the ritual—nor had they made contact beyond the point of holding hands. There was an option, in the ceremony, for the two wolves to kiss to formally seal the union, but Lyrie and Reeve had both stated their preference for leaving that particular moment out of the ritual. Instead, he’d lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. Strong hands, soft with youth but well-calloused. That didn’t surprise him one jot. Wolves in that pack spent more time with a weapon in their hands than out of it. Holding a sword was as familiar to him as breathing, even now.

“Fancy that,” Reeve said under his breath when they reached the old library, which was already crowded with partygoers. “There’s that inter-pack harmony we’ve been waiting for. Wish we’d known that all we had to do was get ‘em to throw a big party, would’ve saved us a lot of hassle.”

He snuck a sidelong glance at Lyrie, hoping at least for a polite smile of acknowledgment of the quip. Absolutely nothing. Her face might as well have been carved from stone, and when she felt his eyes on her she shot him a look that could only be described as ‘withering’. He turned away, feeling thoroughly cowed and more than a little annoyed. Wasn’t it a good thing, looking up at the transformed edifice of the old library and realizing that it was their warring packs who’d come together to decorate it? Every window was decorated with fresh flowers—the whole island must’ve gotten up as early as he had to gather enough. There were even more inside. The great central hall had been cleared of its usual assortment of bookshelves, and there were long tables at either side of the hall groaning with food and drink. His wolves were seeing to the catering, he observed, but it seemed that Darion’s were seeing to the entertainment. There was a band set up at the far end of the hallway. No speakers, no sound equipment, not so much as a microphone for the singer… but still, the noisy hall was full of song.

It wasn’t long before his groomsmen had abandoned him. Darion had made himself scarce almost the moment the library had come into view, and Blaine was quickly drawn towards the food tables. Torren was dragging a protesting Belmont across the library, clearly torn between getting a drink and joining the dance. Renfrey stayed by his side for a few minutes, but Reeve could see the exhaustion on the man’s face and didn’t have the heart to keep him there.

“Go and find Syrra,” he said, slapping Kurivon’s Alpha on the shoulder and noticing the way Lyrie stiffened with visible disapproval. “You’ve earned a rest after all that damn talking.”

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Renfrey said, and Reeve could see the gratitude in his eyes. “Welcome to Kurivon, Lyrie. All my best wishes with you both.”

And then they were alone. Just Reeve and his brand new soulmate. He cleared his throat, wishing like hell he’d thought to ask someone to fetch him a drink before they all disappeared to enjoy the party. He’d been itching for a drink all day, if he was honest… ideally, he’d have been half smashed before the ceremony even started.

“So,” he said finally, leaning down a little so she’d be able to hear him over the roar of the music. “Can we talk like normal people yet, or are we waiting for more pages of the script to be delivered?”

A flash of annoyance in those silver eyes of hers. She pressed her lips together in a profoundly unconvincing smile. “Our ritual obligations are dispensed with. I believe we can speak freely, now.”

That was speaking freely, was it? If anything, she sounded stiffer than she had when she’d been reciting the words of the vows—all from memory, too, he’d noticed. It made him feel a little embarrassed about having had to write his down, though the lorekeepers had said that was acceptable.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, soulmate. If you missed it before, I’m Reeve.”

---