Page 30 of Broken Arranged Mate
When I rise up onto the rock with her, I expect her to be afraid. An omega, out here in the middle of nowhere, on her own, in the middle of the super blood moon.
A scent rises from her—not quite a heat, but something adjacent to it, something heady and intoxicating. She stares at me, those wide, ocean-blue eyes steady and large, reflecting the light of the moon.
At once, it’s like I’ve known her for a millennium.
When I step closer to her, she shifts into her human form, standing tall, not at all intimidated by me. Her cheeks are round, her dark brown hair loose around her shoulders, and shining with streaks of silver, like sparkling tinsel.
It’s only when I reach out to touch it that I realize I’ve also shifted into my human form, and we’re standing together, bathed in the moonlight.
“Hello,” she says, voice ethereal, and when I run my hands over her arms, my fingers grazing the skin there, I feel her shiver in my bones.
It’s the super blood moon, that massive red-gray sphere, hanging in the sky. I try to tell myself that its effect is the only reason I’m feeling this way. It’s what urged that woman to pressherself against me in the hall earlier, and it’s what’s making me feel like my soul is floating out of my body, untethered to anything except a mindless, consistent roll of desire.
Pleasure, touch. All I want is to touch this woman, this shifter, to put my claim on her and know her inside and out. It’s more than I’ve ever wanted from a woman, and she is the first I’ve wanted to map for myself, to keep like a talisman.
Then I get what I want. She steps into my arms, tipping her head up to mine, our lips just about to brush.
And I’m waking up.
Reality comes flooding back to me like a rush of ice water, and I gasp against it, sitting up in bed and throwing the sheets off my body. The faintest early morning light shines in through the windows, and the memory of that night—the first time I met Ash Fields, long before I ever knew her brother was the alpha leader of the Ambersky pack—continues to play through my mind, no matter how badly I want it to stop.
Standing, I push to my feet and force myself to walk to the bathroom, stepping into the shower, but even the cold shower doesn’t stop my cock from insisting we find her, do something about this feeling.
It’s not the first time I’ve jacked off in the shower while thinking about Ash Fields, and I know with a certainty that it won’t be the last.
When I step out of the shower, I’m just cold and horny, flashes of her running through my head from the past few weeks.
The last time we were in the watchtower, working together, I’d turned around to find her on her knees, ass in the air, reaching for something under one of the control panels, and had to turn around, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myselffrom going over to her, taking her in my hands, doing everything to that body that I’ve dreamed of since that day on the plateau.
As of now, I’m still sleeping in the family house, the massive, cavernous mansion in which my father died, and when I walk down the hallway, I feel the anger of all those years working through me.
“Landon.”
I knock on his door, and a moment later, he opens, half-dressed and groggy.
“Sir,” he croaks, turning to look at the clock. “Sorry, I—”
“Gather up the Blacklock loyalists,” I say, clearing my throat. “I have a job for them.”
Landon blinks, then says, “Will do. Should I invite Reeyan as well?”
The man who has made it perfectly clear he wants to be on my council. Fine—if he wants to prove himself, a little manual labor might do him good.
“Fine, but make sure they all meet us near the old watchtower on the northern border in the next hour.”
Landon’s eyes widen, but he nods, then turns around, I assume to dress and get ready.
I need something to take my mind off Ash, need to vet my choices for council members. And that watchtower needs to be finished before the wedding.
Might as well accomplish all things at once.
***
Raegan is with our mother today, so Wyn has been relieved of his bodyguard duty and is instead here in the watchtower, helping with the renovations.
Ash has told me her vision so many times I could recite it by heart—string the ceiling with fairy lights, which we’ll have to wire for. Encase the walls in flowers, set the altar just beside the floor-to-ceiling windows, and have some people help us transition the space between the ceremony and the reception.
I can hear her voice in my head, “We’ll have to leave the control panels,” a sigh, “because there’s just not enough time to figure out how to get them out.”
