Page 34 of Broken Arranged Mate (Badlands Wolves #4)

As Oren and I walk home, we talk about my ideas for improving the pack.

I tell him that while the girls and I were lost, we passed a lot of little communities with run-down homes, and it made me think about the renovations I’ve been doing on our own house.

It made me think about how I could pass on the skills Gramps gave to me, teach people how to fix up their homes, and encourage them to come together and take care of their homes together.

“How things look seems trivial,” I say, as we walk along the road toward home.

We could shift, but walking like this feels right, his hand at my back, the large, empty sky above us.

“But I think it would help people to feel more like this land belongs to them again. Taking care of something—caring about how it looks—that means you’re investing in the future. ”

Oren stops, studying me. “So, all those renovation projects when you were pissed at me—?”

I can’t stop the flush that rushes over my cheeks at the realization that he’s right. Even through the worst of it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I still wanted him, that I could still make it work.

Maybe that’s what being mates means.

“I’m still pissed at you,” I say to deflect, but it doesn’t affect the smile on his face.

We talk about the shifters leaving the territory, many of them fleeing for the Llewellyn pack, or even to Ambersky, where omegas are treated better. We discuss the logistics of opening up a college here, like the one in the Llewelyn territory, about what it would take to open it to omegas.

Oren mentions a new training program that would go into effect at each school, each workplace, to touch on the issues facing omegas as well.

I bring up putting together a community center, a place where the pack can come together, like in Ambersky. Oren adds that it should have free housing, a clinic. A place where omegas can come when they’re in heat, if they feel they have nowhere safe to be.

Around us, the desert is calm and quiet, the occasional critter moving through the brush, but for the most part, it’s quiet around us as we talk, until we reach home.

And when we do, I feel the heat come on the moment we get back, washing over my body in a single, heated press of arousal and sensitivity.

My heat normally only comes a few times a year, but I know it’s normal for moments of high stress to trigger it. I guess I’m just lucky it didn’t come on while we were still tied up in that basement.

There’s a reason it’s called heat —and I can already tell that this one is going to be brutal, sweat prickling along my collarbone and hairline. Everywhere my skin touches something else feels too hot, the leather under my legs already growing wet with my sweat.

Oren looks over at me the moment I feel the slick between my legs, and his expression shifts, something determined passing over it as we walk up to the front porch.

“Come here,” he says, and a moment later, he has his hand behind my back, his arms coming around me as he carries me into the house.

I realize this is exactly like what happened last time, but this time without the wedding dress. He was carrying me bridal style through the house, me right at the beginning of my heat. A do-over for both of us.

The tiniest prickle of fear pushes through me—what if this time turns out just like the last one did?

I can’t think about it, so instead, I just trust him, nestling against his chest, pressing my face into the curve of his neck where his scent is strongest. I inhale deeply, letting his familiar scent—star anise, rich spices—wash over me. It calms the frantic pulsing of my heat, if only temporarily.

This time, instead of taking me to the bedroom, he carries me straight to the bathroom, holding me as he buries his nose in the crook of my neck and breathes me in deeply, just like I did to him.

“Bath or shower?” he asks, holding me like I weigh nothing.

I laugh. That’s not what I was expecting. “Bath.”

Oren hits the light switch with his elbow, then sets me carefully on the closed toilet lid, his hands lingering to ensure I’m steady before turning to the tub.

I watch as he leans over, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he turns the taps.

The pipes groan—they’re old, original to the house, and definitely need replacing—as hot water rushes into the claw-foot basin.

Steam rises, fogging the mirror. Oren adds lavender oil to the water, and I have no idea where he found it. Was it left over in the house? The scent unfurls in the humid air, and I feel my shoulders relax slightly, the tight knot of pain forming in my lower back easing just a fraction.

“Arms up,” he instructs gently, turning back to me.

I comply, allowing him to peel my sweat-soaked pajama shirt from my body.

His eyes darken as he looks at me, but there’s something beyond desire there—a protective devotion that makes me feel simultaneously small and incredibly powerful.

My skin is flushed pink, hypersensitive to even the air currents in the room.

He helps me stand, his hand steady at my waist as I step out of my underwear. My legs tremble embarrassingly, the heat making me weak in ways I hate. But Oren’s grip is sure, keeping me upright until I’m safely lowered into the tub.

I can’t help the sigh that escapes me as the hot water envelops my body. The relief is immediate, if temporary.

He dips a washcloth into the water, a gentle cascade as he squeezes it over my shoulders.

With methodical care, he runs the cloth along my neck, across my collarbones, down my spine.

There’s intimacy in his touch that transcends the physical—a wordless promise that he’ll see me through this, that I’m safe with him.

I wonder, also, if this is him trying to wash the night away from me. Get rid of the smell of those men on my skin.

“I’m sorry for leaving without telling you,” I say, and he looks up at me, his hand pausing mid-air with the cloth.

“Well,” he clears his throat, laughing a bit, his black hair falling onto his forehead. “You made a good point. We’re even now.”

“Aidan and Emaline have a deal that neither of them leaves without telling the other where they’re going. I think—I think we should do that, too.”

It feels weird to admit that I want this from him, but Kira was right. I have to be brave about this, tell him what I want and how I’m feeling.

“Anything,” he says, eyes on me with a serious weight. “I’ll agree to anything if it means I get to keep you, Ash.”

That makes my stomach flip, and I watch him as he continues running the cloth over my arms gently. Even the roll of the water over my skin makes me shiver with desire.

“I’ve always hated my heat. It makes me feel helpless.”

“Should I apologize again for what I did?” Oren asks, cracking a half-smile. “Because I will.”

“No,” I laugh, shaking my head and looking away from him. “I just—I really prefer feeling strong over this.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen you as anything but strong, Ash. In fact, for most of the time I’ve known you, you’ve terrified me."

“Really? Even when I’ve been a sweaty, hormonal mess?”

“Yes. It reminds me that I’m not the only one who struggles with self-control.”

When I look at him again, his pupils are blown wide, and I know the way my scent is affecting him right now.

“Come here,” I whisper, my fingers curling around his wrist.

He leans in, and I press my forehead to his, our breaths mingling. For a moment, we stay like that, sharing air and unspoken words. Then I shift, angling my face to brush my lips against his.

The kiss is gentle at first, a mere suggestion of contact, but I deepen it, sliding my hand to the nape of his neck. He tastes like home.

I reach for him with my other hand, wanting to draw him into the tub with me, to feel his weight and strength against me. But he pulls back, shaking his head.

“You don’t have to hold back,” I whisper, a wave of desire rushing through me, making me let out a little moan, that particular spot inside me aching for his touch, for the pressure only he can provide.

“Ash,” he says, his voice already rough in a way that makes my body respond immediately. “I want to take care of you.”

“This is taking care of me,” I insist, taking his hand and guiding it into the water. “Please, Oren.”

He complies, and the first touch of his fingers against me in the water nearly makes me come undone for him. He lets out a low noise, dropping his chin to his chest, and explores me, his fingers sliding through my slick with ease, pressing against my clit, finding my opening.

When he slips a finger inside me, I grip onto him, the first, tentative orgasm rolling through me like the smell outside a restaurant, a hint of what’s to come.

“Okay,” he rasps, his hand tightening at my hip as I tighten around his finger, body coiling up in pleasure. Even as the orgasm recedes, I can feel another one waiting on the horizon. “Okay,” he says again, his eyes flying to mine. “Would it also be taking care of you if we went to the bedroom?”

“Yes,” I practically whimper, tightening my arms around him, and when he lifts me from the bathtub, water cascades from me, dripping along the hallway.

Neither of us worries about bothering with a towel.