Page 40 of Fat Forced Mate

"Hanging in there, little one?" I whisper. "Just a few more hours, then we can rest."

A strange sensation ripples through me in response—not quite movement, it's far too early for that, but something like greeting. Magic pulsing toward magic. My magic thrums in response, warm and bright.

Too bright. The sensation intensifies unexpectedly, rushing through me like a flash flood. I gasp, pressing both hands against the shed wall for support, as magic surges down my arms and into the wood.

There's a sickening crack as the wooden beam beside me splinters from top to bottom.

"Luna?"

I whirl around to find James watching me, his expression shifting from concern to alarm.

"What was that?" he asks, approaching cautiously.

"Nothing," I say too quickly. "Just—just lost my balance for a second."

He looks pointedly at the splintered beam. "That's not nothing, Luna. What's going on with you?"

"I'm fine. Just tired." I push away from the wall, determined to end this conversation before he can ask more questions. "I still need two more tokens before sunset."

"Luna—"

"I have to go." I brush past him, heart hammering. That was too close.

As I hurry away, I feel a strange prickling at the back of my neck, an awareness that has nothing to do with my brother's concerned gaze. Something feels off about the forest edge visible beyond the packhouse—a wrongness I can't quite name but can definitely sense. My magic responds to it with wary alertness, like a guard dog catching an unfamiliar scent.

Focus, Luna. The trial. Two more tokens.

I push the strange sensation aside and continue toward the infirmary. The pack medic, Dr. Reynolds, has always been neutral toward me, never cruel but never particularly warm either. She might be willing to trade a token for some help organizing her medicinal herbs.

But as I round the corner of the community center, I collide with someone coming the opposite way.

"Watch where you're—" The voice cuts off abruptly. "Oh. It's you."

Melissa Blackwood sits on the ground where our collision knocked her, holding her ankle with a grimace of pain. Blood seeps through her fingers from a gash just above her boot.

"You're hurt," I observe unnecessarily.

"Brilliant deduction," she snaps, trying to stand and wincing when she puts weight on the injured leg.

I hesitate only briefly before kneeling beside her. "Let me see."

"Get away from me!" She tries to scoot backward, but stops with a hiss of pain.

"Don't be stupid, Melissa. You're bleeding, and I can help."

Our eyes lock in a silent battle of wills. Finally, she removes her hand from the wound, revealing a nasty gash about three inches long.

"What happened?" I ask, examining it carefully. This wound didn’t come from her fall just now. It’s been bleeding for a while.

"Accident in the kitchens. I didn’t want to make a scene." Her voice is clipped. "It's nothing."

But it's not nothing. The cut is deep, and while a shifter's healing would eventually take care of it, it's the kind of wound that could leave a nasty scar if not treated properly.

"I have something that will help," I say, reaching for my herb pouch. "No magic, just medicine."

She watches suspiciously as I pull out a small container of healing salve—the one I always carry with me, made from yarrow, comfrey, and plantain.

"This might sting," I warn, before gently applying the salve to the wound.

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