Page 16 of Broken Arranged Mate (Badlands Wolves #4)

When Kira told me Veva had agreed to host the bridal shower, I burst into laughter. An engagement party, a wedding shower, and now a bridal shower.

At least Oren isn’t required to attend this one. I could tell he already thought the shower and engagement party were more than enough. Like I have a lot recently, I hear his voice in my head— I thought we were getting married in the warehouse.

Of course he did. I don’t know if that’s an Oren thing or a man thing in general.

Veva’s home is gorgeous, the windows open, and flowers line the walls. She’s put together a build-your-own bouquet wall, and there’s a long table with chocolate-covered strawberries, champagne, and little finger sandwiches along the left side of her living room.

I’m wearing another white dress, hemmed short as a sort of party version of the real thing. Although I haven’t seen the real thing, I have no idea what Kira is doing for it. She’s very secretive, miming zipping her mouth every time I try to bring it up.

I have to trust her. It’s not like she’s ever made something ugly before.

“Are you getting burnt out from all the parties?”

Emaline is wearing a blush pink dress that hangs to her elbows, a matching bow in her hair, which hangs halfway down her back.

Every time I see her, it feels longer than I remember.

Probably because when I first met her, she was freshly out of jail, where they keep a strict regulation on how long a prisoner’s hair can be.

“No,” I say, while nodding, which makes her laugh. I take a sip of my champagne and glance at her. “Veva really did a great job.”

“She did,” Emaline agrees, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m just glad nobody asked me to host. Aidan, the baby, and I are stuck in that little apartment while our house is being built. We have no space for the three of us, let alone a whole celebration.”

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I turn, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her in closer.

“Whoa—hey,” she lowers her voice for the second word, whispering it into my ear as she rubs my back. “Everything okay?”

I should tell her the truth. She’s one of my closest friends.

If I told the truth, it would be that every time she talks about her baby, about Aidan, I’m filled with a stupid amount of jealousy that makes me feel ashamed, and also like a bad friend. I should be happy for her, not jealous of what she has.

But ever since Dorian and I were kids, I’ve wanted to build a family. Maybe it came from losing our parents, or being so solitary as Gramps focused most of his time on Dorian, but I’d dreamed of the day I found someone to love me, cherish me.

I think of Oren, that stiff, reserved posture. The way he looks right through me.

The fact that I thought he was my mate, and he shut me down so spectacularly it put a bad taste in my mouth for months after. And the fact that I’ve never told any of my friends about it before.

I open my mouth to respond to her, to maybe give her some small part of what I’ve just thought, but Veva appears, wearing her trademark frown.

“Hey, I put all this together, and Em’s the one who gets the hug?”

Pushing away thoughts of Oren—and of this entire situation—I turn to Veva and wrap my arms around her, too.

“Well, thanks,” she says, then, stepping away from me, pushes some of that dark hair over her shoulder. “I put together a game. And you have to play it.”

“Now?”

“Right now, yes,” she gestures to the front of the room, where there’s a fold-up chair adorned with some fake flowers, settled right in front of the TV.

I make my way over there and settle in. Veva hands me a whiteboard, and I look around at the women gathered for some clue as to what is going to happen.

Then, I hear a voice I don’t expect.

“…really have to do this?”

It’s Oren. I whip around and look at the TV, which draws some laughter from the crowd. He’s there on the TV, black hair mussed, eyes dark, those constant tired circles drawn on his handsome face. The camera shakes a bit, and when the voice from behind it comes, I realize it’s Veva.

“Yes, you have to do it. Now, answer the first question.”

Oren sighs, looks down at the paper in his hand, which crinkles audibly over the video. Slowly, like he’s in pain, he says, “What is the bride’s favorite food?”

He narrows his eyes and looks up at the camera, then Veva pauses it, so Oren is stuck there, with that scrutinizing expression he makes so often.

“Uh,” I laugh, glancing around at them. If this is a game where Oren has to answer questions about me, it’s going to be awkward. We may be getting married, but we know next to nothing about one another. “Creme br?lée?”

A grin splits across Veva’s face, and she unpauses the video, just in time for Oren to grunt, “Creme br?lée.”

Something like shock, gooey, and pleased, spreads through me. I think about that first party, how he refused to take a bite of it. I can’t believe he even remembers what it was.

“That’s one point,” Veva says, cheekily, before Oren reads the next question. I watch the other women in the room, register the way they look at the TV screen, and flare with something that can only be—what? Protectiveness? Possessiveness?

“What is the groom’s—wait, I have to ask questions about myself?” he drops the paper, shaking his head. “I thought this was for the bridal party.”

“Bridal shower,” Veva retorts from behind the camera, which makes everyone in the room with us laugh. “And yes, you have to answer questions about yourself. That’s part of the game. To see how well you know one another.”

I see something flash over his face that I recognize—of course, we don’t know each other. Not in the way that most other engaged couples do.

“What is the groom’s favorite color?” Oren asks, voice flat and emotionless. He’s in the middle of letting out a long sigh when Veva pauses the screen, looking at me.

I’m laughing, “I don’t know, black?”

Veva cackles and unpauses the video, just for Oren to say, “I don’t know, black?”

“Match made in heaven,” Emaline laughs, while Kira shakes her head and says, “Black is not a color.”

Veva shushes the crowd and works the remote again, so Oren comes to life.

“What’s the bride’s best skill?” Oren reads, deadpan, from the paper. Once again, Veva pauses it, and everyone shifts their attention to me again.

“Uh…” I pause, clear my throat, thinking, wondering if I even have a best skill. “Nothing,” I laugh, while people boo and tell me to really answer.

But when Veva unpauses the TV again, it opens to a moment of silence, and, unable to stop myself, I twist in the chair, looking at the screen, watching Oren’s face shift from annoyed to thoughtful, like I have so many he has to think through to answer the question truthfully.

After a moment, he refocuses his attention on the camera and says, “She’s brilliant. Does that count as a skill?”

Veva hesitates on the video, then says, her voice warm, “Of course it does.”

I freeze, staring at the screen, heart thudding in my chest like Oren is here right now, saying that to my face. My entire body is hot, molten from the compliment, from the earnestness with which he delivered it.

But I can’t do this—I can’t let myself think this is anything more than what it is.

Of course, he’s going to compliment me. That’s what we’re doing here, pretending to like each other.

Bring the packs together. He’s not going to insult me for all the Ambersky women here to see. We all need them to like him.

And this is certainly working. When I turn back around, one of them is actually fanning herself.

“Okay,” Veva says, her eyes locked on mine.

There must be something on my face, something that says I want nothing more than to be done with this game.

It’s clear there are more questions, more videos, but she turns the TV off, clearing her throat and gesturing to the dining room. “Time for cake, everyone!”