Page 7 of Broken Arranged Mate (Badlands Wolves #4)

I wish I were anywhere else right now—back in my own territory, in my own home, not in the center of all these people, a fun little party favor for them to take home and talk about amongst themselves.

My entire body is on high alert with Ash in my arms, highly attuned to every place our skin touches. I wish, more than anything, that I didn’t like her. That she disgusted me, or that her presence simply did nothing to me.

But it’s hard for me to think clearly when I’m near her. My brain feels fuzzy, like eyes that need constant blinking to keep from clouding over.

I’ve never enjoyed parties, but at least growing up, the parties were always about my father. I never had to endure being the center of attention like this, eyes always finding me, mouths moving as people form and share their opinions on me and my marriage.

My fiancée.

Without meaning to, I tighten my hold on Ash, and she notices immediately, looking up at me. I wanted to dance because I thought the movement would be better than sitting so close to her, but I realize now that touching her is far, far worse.

My wolf knows what it’s like to have her. And he wants her again.

This is going to be fucking torture, and I’ve done it to myself. All I had to do was avoid her, and instead, I pointed her out. Got myself into this mess.

And yet. If it can stop the fighting between the packs, it might just be worth the pain.

“Oh—” Ash stumbles when the music cuts out, and I wrap my hand around her back, drawing her up before she can fall. Her eyes cut to mine, but I avoid looking at them—so deep and blue that I’m sure a better man would draft poetry about the oceans, about aquamarine skies, lapis lazuli.

“Dessert is served,” Kira says from her spot by the quartet, whom she must have just ordered to stop playing. Slowly, we move into the reception area, where the tables have been cleared of the food—tender beef and potatoes, salad and asparagus—and replaced with dozens of little ramekins.

“Wow, Kira,” Ash says, reaching out for her friend’s arm, her eyes sparkling. “You made all this creme br?lée?”

“It was nothing,” Kira waves her hand, but flashes Ash a grin. “The girls helped. It’s your party, Ash.”

When Kira leaves, drifting over to the little station where servers are holding blow torches, putting the finishing touches on the little dishes, I can’t stop myself from looking to my fiancée. “You like creme br?lée?”

“What?” she replies, tilting her head. “You don’t? It’s good!”

“No idea.” When I say it, her eyes widen. “Never tried it.”

“You’ve…never tried it? What about…?”

“All those fancy Grayhide parties?” I laugh, then shake my head, shoving the bitter feeling to the bottom of my stomach. “Those desserts weren’t for me.”

But that’s not the truth—the truth is that I learned a long time ago not to eat a single thing that I hadn’t procured myself.

Not once did I get big enough that my father was looking at me sideways, considering, measuring.

My mother pulled me aside at sixteen and told me not to take food or drink from my father, and that included the mountains of food at his parties.

Which was her way of telling me she wasn’t sure he wouldn’t poison an entire room full of people just to keep me from challenging him for the alpha leader spot.

I’ve been so lost in my head that I didn’t register Ash pulling me over to a table, sliding one of the ramekins in front of me.

“Here,” she says, dipping her head at it, eyes darting to the blackberry settled on top, the little sprig of mint there, resting beside the fruit. “Try that bite. It’ll be the best one.”

I stare at the desert, throat working, that familiar defensiveness rising up inside me. After more than ten seconds pass, Ash’s brows draw together, and she looks back at the dessert, then to me.

Luckily, we’re saved by someone else approaching the table.

“Sir.” It’s Landon, with another alpha—tall, blonde, with a crooked nose and light green eyes. He’s glancing between Ash and me thoughtfully, and I want to shift in front of her, to save her from the scrutiny of others.

When I say nothing, the blonde man sticks his hand out, cutting off Landon before he can speak again. “Oren. I’m Reeyan. Landon here was telling me that you’re looking to assemble a new council.”

I am; I’d put some people together shortly after everything happened, but ended up dissolving the group because I wasn’t sure I could trust them.

Dorian made it clear how important it is to have a council—to get other perspectives, make sure everyone feels they have a voice—but with the pack’s turmoil, I’m still not sure who to choose.

“I am,” I answer, without saying all the rest. I prefer not to show my cards and instead let the other person do that. He nods, clasps his hands together.

“Well,” he says, reaching into his pocket and handing me a business card. His smile is wide, swith traight white teeth misaligned with the rest of his face. “I’m interested, if you want to talk it through sometime.”

I only glance at his card briefly before tucking it into my pocket. It’s tacky to be doing this at my party, but with all these eyes on me, I’ve decided the best thing to do is just tolerate it until he walks away.

“I’m a pack historian,” he adds, still not walking away, but that information slightly changes my perception of him.

A pack historian might actually be useful on a council.

“With all the recent events,”—he nods to Ash—“and the details of this union, I thought it might be useful for you to get some information. You know, the last time a Grayhide Alpha leader was engaged like this was—”

“In the early sixteen hundreds,” Ash says, surprising us both with her blasé tone.

I turn to look at her, eyebrows shooting up.

If given that question on a multiple-choice test, I could have gotten it right, but to answer so quickly like that?

As if she can hear my thoughts, she glances at me and says, “Sixteen-twenty-four.”

“That’s right,” Reeyan says, eyebrows shooting up. Once again, he glances between the two of us, like I might have some answer for why Ash would know that. “You are Ambersky, right?”

“Yes.” Ash, apparently fed up with my hesitancy, reaches for my spoon, pulls the creme br?lée toward herself, and cracks through the top, crunchy layer. Through her bite, she says, “And I’ve studied the Grayhide pack extensively. Know your enemy and all that.”

The two of them talk about history for another five minutes, then Landon finally receives my signals to get this man away from our table. The second he’s gone, I turn to my fiancée.

“Why did you know that?” I ask, hackles already rising, defenses going up around me.

She watches me for a second, then drags her spoon slowly between her lips, almost like she knows how distracting it is for me. “I told him, I—”

“I heard.” I know I’m interrupting her, but I can’t stop myself. “What possible reason could you have for studying Grayhide history like that?”

Her spoon hits the ceramic dish with a clang , and she scowls at me. “Oh, besides having a brain and being able to read?”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“I didn’t realize education offended you,” she bristles. “Except it didn’t—not when you found out Reeyan was a historian. So is it knowing history, or just me knowing it that bothers you?”

Without giving me a chance to respond, she stands up, leaving the other half of the creme br?lée sitting there.

I sit in the middle of the party that’s being thrown for me, feeling remarkably alone.

I’m not offended that Ash knows our history. I’m wary of her—of her boldness, of the way I can see her mind working. She’s smart. That much is clear. At the worst, she’s a plant by the Ambersky to take me down. It’s not likely, but it is possible.

And at best, she knows enough to easily see my shortcomings. It’s clear that she must have gone through the same training as her brother, despite the fact that she would never be able to pursue the alpha leader role.

The last thing I need is another person poised to critique my shortcomings.

I glance around at the party. Unable to locate my fiancé, I sigh, and my eyes land on the half-finished dessert. Her spoon is still warm when I pick it up and take a bite, assuming the chance of poison is low, considering she ate enough of it herself.

Vanilla bursts in my mouth, crunch chasing hot chasing cool. The berry is tart and ripe with flavor, a sharp contrast to the cream of the custard.

It’s better than just good—it’s fucking delicious.