Page 16 of Broken Arranged Mate
It’s not much, and it’s going to take a lot of work, but I’d take anything over sleeping another night in that old house. When the dust settled and everything calmed down, the house manager insisted I take my father’s old rooms—the grand suites, complete with hot tubs, luxury furniture, flat screen TVs, and sweeping views of the city.
I couldn’t sleep in there, and took to sleeping in Raegan’s old room, which at least still had the bed. My room was half crime scene, half storage room, the site of my father’s rage when he found out I’d left, then a forgotten hideaway for broken and unneeded items.
“Come on.” I turn off the ignition and hop out of the truck. I need to keep my body moving if I want to keep my mind blank, so that’s what I do, circling the Jeep and opening her door for her on the other side.
“It’s freaky, how fast you move,” she complains.
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.”
“That’s fine,” she says, flashing me a quick grin. It makes my chest inflate with that strange, open feeling, and I squash it again.
We walk into the house, and I hold my breath, watching her walk through the rooms and take everything in. I don’t know why it matters to me, what she thinks—this house is something of a family heirloom, coming from my grandmother’s side of the family. It shouldn’t matter what Ash says.
When we step through the sliding back door and onto the large porch, she sucks in a breath of the dry desert air and points to a spot in the yard straightaway.
It’s a gravel yard, because keeping any sort of grass out here is a nightmare. At first, I think she’s talking about the fact that it could use a good raking, but she shakes her head when I mention it.
“See that corner,” she tilts her head slightly, and it feels for all the world like she’s looking at something I just can’t see. “It’s…drooping. Sagging slightly.”
“It’s the desert,” I reply, unsure why there’s this bristling feeling inside me. “Sand shifts.”
She makes a sound deep in her throat, and when we’re walking back through the house, she points out the chipped baseboard, talks about replacing the doors, wanting soft-close cabinets.
The last thing I want to deal with is conducting a full-scale renovation, hiring a bunch of strangers to be in and out of my house. I clamp my mouth shut, and by the time we reach the front door again, it’s ticking with agitation.
I should have known this wouldn’t be good enough for an omega raised under the alpha leader of her pack. Of course, she wants something better than this mid-size house outside the city limits.
When I say nothing, she eventually says nothing, keeping all her opinions about the house to herself. We climb into the truck together, and I start it, taking us in the direction of the border.
“What’s that?” Ash asks, her voice ringing out so suddenly that it jolts me from thoughts of rationing, Amanzite, and whether or not that Reeyan should be added to the council.
“Fuck, why do you do that?” I hiss, righting the truck and looking over at her. To my surprise, she’s laughing, then pointing and rolling down her window.
“Turn here!”
I surprise myself by obeying, yanking the wheel toward a little dirt path out into the middle of the path. When I look up, I realize what she was talking about.
“It’s an old watchtower,” I say, leaning forward to peer through the windshield at the old property. “Used for eyes on the border back before our Amanzite casting was good enough to communicate with one another. We’d use flashes and flares.”
Ash makes a noise low in her throat, and when I glance over at her, I realize she’s halfway out the window, hanging out to get a better look. I reach over and grab a handful of her shirt, which makes it ride up to her navel, which nearly makes me choke.
Forfuck’ssake. It’s like I’m a gods-damned teenager.
“It looks just like the…what are they called? Up on the coast…lighthouses!”
“Get back inside.” I give her a little tug, and when I do, my thumb brushes against the warm skin of her stomach.
She was beautiful in that dress, during the party, but now she looks comfortable, worn-in, more herself. I like seeing her in these jean shorts, a simple T-shirt, and sneakers.
And I would like to see her out of them.
I push the errant thought out of the way, focusing on the matter at hand as I pull up in front of the structure, circling around and parking. The base is wide—nearly as big as four of my trucks. I’ve driven past this thing so often it blends in for me, but Ash is looking at it with wonder.
“You guys really like to builduphere,” she mutters, then jumps out of the car.
I realize too late that she’s headed for the old, crumbling door.
“Ash.” Genuine fear leaps into my throat as she nears it, and I picture the whole fucking thing collapsing down on top of her. Leaping out of the lighthouse, I boom after her, “Ash,stop.”
