Page 64 of Broken Forced Mate
“You can handle the salad if you want.”
We work side by side in comfortable silence. For the first time since our forced marriage, the atmosphere between us feels…almost calm. Normal, to some degree.
“This is nice,” I admit as I chop tomatoes.
“What is?”
“Cooking together. Feels almost…normal.”
Wyn pauses in stirring the sauce. “Normal’s not something I’ve had much experience with.”
“What do you mean?”
“Growing up on the outskirts after my parents died. Never really learned how families are supposed to work.” He adds herbs to the sauce and tastes it with a wooden spoon. “Maude took me in, but she had her hands full with pack business. Mostly fended for myself.”
I want to ask about his parents, about what happened to his family. I know the basics—Oren has told me some things—but I’ve always been curious about the details. But I don’t want to ruin the moment, so instead, I focus on the salad.
“What was it like?” he asks. “In Llewelyn territory?”
“Different. Good different, mostly.” I pour dressing over the greens. “The matriarchal structure takes some getting used to if you grow up here, but it has advantages.”
“Such as?”
“Education isn’t limited by gender or rank. Omegas can pursue whatever interests them without constantly being told they’re too fragile. Women make decisions about their own futures.”
“Unlike here,” he quietly notes.
“Unlike here,” I confirm.
The pasta timer goes off, saving us from dwelling on that particular reality. Wyn drains the noodles while I set the table, and soon, we’re sitting across from each other with actual plates of food instead of grabbed snacks between meetings.
“This is really good,” I tell him after the first bite.
“My mother’s recipe. One of the few things I remember about her cooking.”
“How old were you when they died?”
Wyn sets down his fork, and I immediately regret the question. But after a moment, he answers.
“Fifteen. Old enough to understand what happened, young enough for it to destroy everything I thought I knew about the world.”
“What happened?”
“Pack conflict when I was young,” he explains. “My father…he made choices that didn’t end well for our family.”
“What kind of choices?”
Wyn is quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. “He was respected once. Had standing in the pack. But when it mattered most, when he was challenged….” He trails off, shaking his head. “He failed. Both my parents died because of it, and I was left with nothing but a tainted bloodline.”
The shame he feels vibrates through our connection, but I don’t need my psychic abilities to sense it. I can hear it in his voice—the burden of carrying his father’s perceived cowardice, the loss of status and standing.
“That’s why you rejected me,” I realize. “Because you thought I deserved better than someone whose family fell from grace.”
Wyn’s hand stills halfway to his mouth. “Partly, but yes. An alpha’s sister shouldn’t be tied to someone like me.”
“What was the other part?”
“You were twenty, Raegan. Barely finished with your basic education, sheltered by your brother from most of the harsh realities of pack life.” He sets down his fork and adds, “I was carrying baggage you couldn’t even imagine. And yes, you deserved better than someone whose family name was a stain on pack history.”
