Page 6 of Broken Arranged Mate (Badlands Wolves #4)

When my brother puts his mind to something, he can accomplish great things in a very short amount of time.

The warehouse—which, at the start of the week, was dusty, cavernous, and worn from neglect—sparkles with lights, glows golden from the tea candles, and is filled with flowers to the point that Emin has been sneezing from the moment he walked inside.

It’s fragrant, homey, and swarming with shifters from both packs, all who regard each other with uncertain eyes.

Located just near the Badlands lines, it’s a compromise between the packs, not asking either Ambersky or Grayhide to go completely into the other’s territory.

My dress is knee-length, the fabric smooth to the touch, but with enough lift under the skirt that it twirls around my knees; sheer sleeves over my arms, a high neckline reaching up to my throat.

Kira made it for me, adding the sleeves when I said I’d want just a little more coverage.

It’s a pearly white—a taste of the dress I’ll wear.

At my wedding.

I swallow through the thought, still in disbelief that I agreed to this— suggested this—during that meeting. Even more than that, I’m still in disbelief that Oren said yes.

He’s made it more than clear that he wants nothing to do with me.

And yet, here he is, standing stiffly next to me at the front of this party, wearing a charcoal gray suit and standing at attention, like he’s a pallbearer preparing to carry a casket, and not a new groom celebrating the upcoming union with his fiancée.

Not for the first time since the council broke into a frenzy, starting to prepare, I have the thought: What in the hells are we doing?

It’s clear Oren hates me. When I walked into the room earlier, he only spared me a glance for half a second before immediately looking at something else. He didn’t even say hello to me, not until Dorian was at my side.

“Oh, honey! It’s so good to see you. Ash Fields—though not for long!”

I blink, realizing I’ve been stuck in my own head, and it takes me a second to register the couple standing in front of me. An older pair of shifters from Ambersky. Friends of Gramps, people who have known me my entire life.

“Ha,” I try, hoping it sounds less like a sarcastic half-attempt at laughter and more genuine, like a bubbling, excited bride. “It’s good to see you, thank you so much for coming.”

“That brother of yours,” the woman says, shaking her head and glancing across the room. “He’s got such a good head on his shoulders. We were just talking about how something like this would help the packs come together—we should have known Dorian would be ahead of us!”

She laughs, and the sound cuts right through my brain, above the slow, dancing sound of the quartet behind her. I grit my teeth, swallow down the indignity, tell myself that it was actually Emin who suggested it, anyway. It’s not a big deal.

“Actually, it was Ash’s idea.”

The three of us startle, turn to look at Oren, who is still standing perfectly straight, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes darting over to us, then specifically to me as he goes on, “She fought for the idea. Dorian was against it.”

“Oh.” The man clears his throat, nods, glances at his wife, almost like he’s asking her What do we do now?

It’s not exactly like they’re going to argue with Oren, an alpha leader and the host of this party. So they just nod, smile, congratulate us, and move away, likely whispering between themselves about the interaction.

The moment they’re gone, I say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

A mixture of annoyance and amusement moves through me. Of course—Oren doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to. That’s one of the perks of the position.

We continue standing at the front of the room, thanking people for coming and standing close enough together that hopefully people think we like one another. My feet start to hurt in my heels, but Oren never shifts, never wavers from his impeccable posture.

Hours later, dinner is served, and we’re sitting at a little table away from everyone else.

“Kind of a weird setup,” I murmur, watching as the servers move through the room, dishing up the meal and placing it in front of each guest. Dorian and Kira are on the other side of the space, along with anyone else I might want to talk to.

Oren glances at me, but says nothing. I sigh without meaning to, and he hikes an eyebrow at me. “What?”

“You didn’t answer me,” I say, raising an eyebrow right back.

“You didn’t ask a question,” he counters, brow furrowing now.

I bite my tongue, push down the frustration in my chest. “Okay. Do you think this is a weird setup? Us all alone over here? Marooned away from the party, even though it’s about us?”

“I’d rather be sitting over here with you than with all of them.”

Heat spreads up my cheeks. I’m not sure how to take that—he likes me enough that he’d miss the party to sit with just me? Or he hates parties enough that he’s willing to withstand my presence, if that’s the cost?

Definitely the latter.

I glance at him without meaning to, catching the strong arch of his jaw. Biting my tongue, I force myself to face forward again, to try and avoid the thoughts flooding my head.

But I can’t.

Because I know the way that jaw feels under my thumb, deceptively soft compared to how it appears. I know the scrape of his stubble, the weight of him, the sound he makes when he’s lost to himself.

Maybe it would be best for us to just address the issue, our shared past. Rather than acting like it doesn’t exist, like our wedding night will be the first time we’ve had each other.

“Oren,” I start, clearing my throat and turning to him. “Don’t you think we should talk about—”

He answers me without looking at me, his jaw ticking once, definitively, like he’s been expecting this and was just waiting to shoot me down.

“No.”

I sit stunned for a moment, then swallow and try again. “I just think—”

He stands abruptly, drawing every eye in the space to us. Turning, he faces me, something unreadable in his expression.

“I’m done eating,” he says, voice not betraying the subject he’s trying to avoid. I have no idea how he managed to school his face like that, to remain so impassive, but it’s infuriating. Holding his hand out to me, he says, “Should we dance?”

A little cheer goes up around the room as I take his hand and stand, following him to the dance floor. The strings swell, and the music gets loud enough for us to dance to. After a moment, I step into him, settling my head against his chest, so I can hear the thud, thud of his heart.

My heart feels practically suspended in my chest, unable to beat, locked in a straitjacket.

Oren steps into me methodically, taking my left hand in his and settling his other hand on my lower back.

I stutter for a moment, not sure what to do, and he gently takes my other hand, setting it on his bicep.

“Oh,” I say when he starts to move us, stepping in time to the rhythm, his movements confident and sure.

Without meaning to, I look up into his eyes, like a slow dancing couple in a movie, and I’m surprised to find him already looking down at me, his face—as always—unreadable. “You know how to dance.”

Simply, he says, “My father ensured we learned. For all his parties.”

Heat moves to my cheeks again when I think about that scene in the ballroom, when his father died. When he killed Mhairi Argent. How many times had he been in that place, dancing, honoring the dad he hated?

For the first time since standing up in that meeting, I start to really grasp what I’m getting myself into. I attach myself to this man. Someone I barely know.

Here we are, dancing together, him leading me in the steps, moving like he doesn’t even have to think about it. His hand on my lower back, our skin seeming to spark where it touches.

He says nothing for the rest of the dance, swiftly moving me into another when the music ends, and other people come join us on the dance floor.

Our breath mingles, and I resist the urge to rest my cheek on his chest, because I know he’s not feeling the same. He’s doing this for the good of his pack, holding me, dancing with me like this. I have no idea what is going on in his head.

We’re as close physically as we can be, and he might as well be on another continent.