Page 8 of The Alpha's Arranged Mate

“I know,” Lyrie said flatly, and he felt his best attempt at a smile fade from his face.

“Just a joke. Trying to put you at ease.” Her eyebrow lifted fractionally, and Reeve fought a sudden and wild urge to put her in a headlock. That was what he’d always done when Darion gave him that judgmental look, and right now she lookedexactlylike his brother. He took a breath, reminding himself that he was talking to a woman who’d just been forced to pledge her whole life to a complete stranger—a stranger who was old enough to be her father, at that. “I know this isn’t what any girl would want, this—forced match.” He’d quickly learned not to use the English word—even that brief touch of Earth culture made every lorekepeer bristle like he’d torn out a page from an ancient tome to light a fire with. Still, they couldn’t stop him from thinking it. This was an arranged marriage.

But Lyrie’s response surprised him—she uttered a short, sharp bark of derisive laughter and turned away, flicking her hand at him dismissively. “Really? You too? Why does every one of your people seem to think I’m some helpless drone? Forced match, my word. I chose to be here, Reeve. It’s a tremendous honor to even witness one of the Old Rites, let alone to participate in one. Our actions today protect every wolf from demonic influence, both here and at home in Halforst. What kind of sniveling coward would need to beforcedto do something so important? What kind of a wolf would I be if compulsion was necessary to make me do my duty?”

“Right,” Reeve said faintly, making a number of adjustments to the impression he’d formed of Lyrie. “Understood. Drink?”

“Certainly,” she said coolly, turning away and folding her arms across her chest. Reeve was halfway across the dance floor and surrounded by increasingly tipsy wolves before he remembered to draw a breath. Had he just been utterly eviscerated at his own damned party? By some slip of a girl who was barely out of her adolescence, no less? No, he thought, narrowing his eyes as he dodged around a pair of wolves who were dancing an enthusiastic tango right across the library’s creaking wooden floor. No, Lyrie may have been many things, but she was no girl. She was a monster—some unholy combination of his bastard of a brother, and all of their most infuriating teachers, jumbled up in a deceptively sweet-looking little package.

Well, this was the last time he’d be making the mistake of underestimating her.

He found her again a few minutes later. She’d bid a retreat to the library’s front porch, where the din was considerably less raucous and the late afternoon sun was warm. He paused in the doorway for a moment, watching the careful way she perched on the porch steps, still taking great care not to damage or crumple the ceremonial garment she was wearing. Reeve had already shed the ceremonial belt the lorekeepers had imposed on him, as well as the majority of the rune-encrusted jewelry they’d hung from his every limb—with the exception of the ring, of course. As he passed her a tall flute of champagne, he saw her own corresponding ring glinting prettily on one of her slender fingers.

They each had one, and that particular requirement was why the preparations had taken as long as they had. Each ring had to be composed of materials that originated from the homeland of each warring pack, and there had been a considerable amount of debate about where exactly Reeve’s home was—none of which had made him feel great, if he was honest. But the ring that had eventually been approved was a thing of beauty. He’d pulled a few strings to hire one of the most in-demand designers in New York, the kind of artist who was so good that few people had ever heard his name. He was famously reclusive, but he was also a wolf, and when Reeve had made the nature of the project clear, he’d been happy to expedite work that would usually have taken months.

“It suits you,” Reeve said, nodding towards the ring now. “Hope the old swordmaster won’t scold you for wearing it in battle.” A brief flash of surprise in those stoic silver eyes. “You forget I grew up on Halforst. I’ve had more bruises from the flat of Trinn’s sword than you would believe.”

“I’d believe it,” she said neutrally, turning her gaze away. Was that a joke, he wondered? Had that been her deadpan attempt at comedy? Not bad. “And it’s permissible to wear the ring on a chain or string around the neck, especially if there’s risk of damage from battle or training.” She sipped her champagne. Could she even fathom how expensive it had been, he wondered? “I’d hate it to be scratched or damaged. It’s so delicate.”

He bristled despite his determination not to let her goad him. “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “It’s made of stronger stuff than you’d imagine.” Bulletproof, was what the artist had told him—and Reeve was inclined to believe him. He had a reputation for an eccentric creative practice, and in New York City, that was saying something. Lyrie was still studying the ring, not looking especially convinced, which was understandable. It did have a delicate appearance. Long, sinuous threads of thin metal wove around each other to form the ring’s not-quite-even circle, impossibly fine etching just visible on the surface of each strand. Runes, as required by the ritual, some ancient, some still in regular use.

“It’s very pretty,” she said finally. Coming from anyone else, that would have been a compliment—but her tone made him grit his teeth. What was it about this woman that made him feel like a kid who’d disappointed his elders again? He’d moved to an entire new world to escape that feeling, he’d made a billion-dollar fortune with his own hands. It shouldn’t have been possible to feel this inadequate again. Reeve drained his champagne, swallowing hard and hoping his irritation wasn’t showing.

“Well, it’s hard to have jewelry made for a stranger,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “Hard to suit a piece to the personality of someone you’ve never met.”

“You’re unhappy about this,” Lyrie said abruptly, finally turning her gaze from the treeline to meet his eyes squarely. “This match, this ritual. You didn’t want to do this.”

“Of course I—” Reeve bit back on his instinctive response, annoyed with himself. She’d all but called him a sniveling coward to his face earlier—was he really going to reinforce her obvious conclusion that he was a self-interested asshole who cared more about himself than his pack and his kin? “I want to protect Kurivon,” he said instead, keeping his voice level. “I want to build something here that will outlive us all, and I want to kick demon ass. I don’t know what kind of crap my brother has told you about me, but if I were you, I’d try getting to know me before you follow all the conclusions he’s planted in your head.”

Lyrie’s eyes narrowed, and he saw her hand tighten on the glass in her hand. “I’m more than capable of drawing my own conclusions. Are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You and your pack. Treating the old ways like they’re silly little traditions followed only by backwards fools who don’t know any better. Scorning and mocking any objection we make to your actions because you’ve decided our beliefs make our opinions less valuable.”

“We’re getting into this, are we?” he asked, feeling the ancient anger with his brother beginning to build in his chest. “Now? Before the celebration’s even over? Sure. Great. Why not?” He set his glass down beside him and shifted a little closer to Lyrie, some part of him intently aware of the faint scent of her perfume, aware that they hadn’t been this close before, not even at the ceremony or in the crowded hall. “It was Darion who arranged all this, but you chose to take part freely, yes? Darion trusts your judgment, he’d never try to control your choices.”

“Of course,” Lyrie said coolly, her eyes not leaving his. A suspicion he’d been forming all day was crystallizing in his mind. She’d been shocked when she saw him—shocked enough that her careful mask of poise had slipped from her face completely. But how could the sight of him have surprised her when she’d spent her whole life looking at a face almost exactly like his?

“And yet he didn’t think to mention, during all of this decision-making, that the man you’d be spending the rest of your life with was his brother?”

He had to give Lyrie credit for her poker face. Not a single movement in her expression—she might as well have been carved from stone from all the reaction he got out of her. For a moment, he was convinced his gambit had failed completely. But then, with a sharp little sound that made them both jump, a crack appeared in the side of the glass in Lyrie’s too-tight grip. She made a soft sound of dismay, quickly holding the glass out at arm’s length before its contents could drip on her gown. Reeve got to his feet, wishing he felt a little more triumph about the fact that he’d gotten under her guard, and took the broken glass gently from her hand.

Lyrie glared at him, and he stood for a long moment, feeling uncharacteristically at a loss for words. What had his plan been here, exactly? He’d wanted so badly to put a crack in that icy composure of hers, but the little victory felt resoundingly hollow. Looking at her now, shaking spilled champagne gingerly from her fingertips, he was reminded again of how young she was. He knew what it took to put up those kinds of walls at that age. Hadn’t he done the exact same thing?

He opened his mouth, not sure of what he was going to say but wanting, somehow, to reach her. But before he could, she’d risen to her feet, muttering some excuse about needing to be seen inside, and disappeared through the door and into the seething throng of partygoers inside. Reeve stared after her for a long moment. Warm as the afternoon sun was as it beat down on him, it was nowhere near enough to ease the icy, sinking feeling in his stomach that he’d gotten this marriage off to an absolutely terrible start.

Chapter 6 - Lyrie

It was a week before Lyrie was seriously considering whether a war between the packs might be an easier situation to deal with.

Her first mistake had been agreeing to the suggestion that she move in with Reeve in his existing quarters. At the time, she’d wanted to ease the already considerable pressure on the grindingly slow construction work. The only completed residence on the island was occupied by Renfrey and Syrra and their young children, and if Reeve and Lyrie were going to live together as soulmates, it would be necessary to reorganize construction schedules in order to finish a residence in time for the ceremony. The other Alphas were still living out of tents on the mainland, a proposition she’d been willing to consider—but Reeve, it turned out, had made his own arrangements regarding accommodation.

Lyrie had seen boats before, back on Halforst. Small ones, usually—canoes and the like, small crafts mostly used for fishing in the warmer months. But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the monstrous craft that was anchored in the calm waters beyond the island of Kurivon. It was bigger than any building on the island—staring up at it from the small rowboat that was carrying them out to the yacht, Lyrie wondered dizzily if it was even larger than Halforst Council’s headquarters back on Halforst.

The tension between her and Reeve wasn’t pleasant. The celebration was still going on at the old library and would likely continue well into the evening, but when the sun had begun to set, she’d known she was out of willpower. And so, after a final rousing round of applause from their guests, she and Reeve had left the party. As they left, the cheering guests had tossed handfuls of what seemed to be rice over them. Speaking to her for the first time since their tense conversation on the porch, Reeve had explained that this was an Earth tradition he’d adopted. She’d spent the rest of the walk to the docks shaking rice out of her ceremonial garments in stony silence.

She kept her guard up, but Reeve could clearly sense how out of her element she felt as they reached the yacht. He’d been babbling about the craft for the whole journey across the water, telling her about the cutting-edge technology that made it a comfortable and sustainable home for him and the dozen or so staff members who also lived there.

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