Page 12 of Fat Sold Mate
I try the door, surprised to find it unlocked. The interior lies in darkness, the familiar scent of old books and Ruby's distinctive lavender-and-rain perfume greeting me as I step inside.
“Ruby?” I call, my voice echoing in the empty space.
I navigate through the shelves to the back of the shop, where the staircase leads to her apartment. The steps creak beneath my weight as I climb, an intruder in a space I've only visited once before.
The door at the top stands partially open. I push it wider, the hinges protesting softly.
“Ruby, it's James. I know it's late, but—”
The words die in my throat as I take in the scene before me. Drawers pulled open, their contents clearly rifled through in haste. The closet door was ajar, revealing half-empty hangers. A familiar orange tabby curled on the unmade bed, watching me with unblinking amber eyes.
She's gone.
The realization hits like a physical blow. I move through the small apartment, looking for some sign that I'm wrong, that she's just stepped out temporarily. But the evidence is clear—a hastily packed bag, missing essentials, a note left behind.
I pick up the folded paper from the kitchen counter, recognizing Ruby's elegant handwriting:
Luna, I'm sorry. I need time to figure things out. Please look after the shop. I'll be in touch when I can. I might never come back—if I don’t, thank you for everything.—R
No explanation. No destination. Just gone.
My wolf roars to life, clawing at my control with sudden ferocity.
FIND HER, he demands, no longer a suggestion but an imperative I can't ignore.
I shove the note in my pocket and race back down the stairs, out into the night. At the edge of the street, I pause, drawing deep breaths through my nose, filtering the scents around me.
There—faint but unmistakable—Ruby's scent trail leading away from the bookshop. Not toward the town square or the pack house, but toward the forest at the edge of our territory.
She's running.
The realization sends a surge of both anger and fear through me. The forest isn't safe, especially at night. Especially for someone who can't shift. Does she intend to run to our borders? To cross them? To keep running until she’s far enough from me that I can’t find her?
No. I won’t allow it.
I follow her trail at a jog, keeping to shadows out of habit. She has maybe a two-hour head start, but on foot, she can't have gone far. As her scent grows stronger near the tree line, my decision is made.
Eventually, I surrender to the shift. It’ll be faster that way. Bones crack and reform, muscles stretch and contort as my human form gives way to wolf. The transformation, familiar as breathing after years of practice, takes only seconds.
On four legs, the world transforms. Scents sharpen into a complex map that tells stories human senses could never decipher. Ruby's trail blazes like a beacon—fear, determination, and underneath it all, a bone-deep sadness that makes my wolf whine in distress.
I follow at a run, paws silent on the forest floor, my night vision piercing the darkness between trees. She's moving with surprising speed for someone on foot, her path winding deeper into the woods, away from Silvercreek.
Away from me.
The thought drives me faster, pushing my wolf body to its limits. Time loses meaning as I track her through the night, moon and stars my only witnesses. She's not making it easy—crossing streams, doubling back, taking unexpected turns. Almost as if she's trying to lose anyone who might follow.
Anyone like me.
Hours pass. The forest grows denser, wilder, the boundaries of Silvercreek territory far behind us now. I should stop, alert Nic, or the patrol about a packmate beyond our borders. But the thought dissolves as quickly as it forms, overwhelmed by the driving need to find Ruby before anything happens to her.
The eastern sky begins to lighten, the first pale fingers of dawn reaching through the canopy. I pause at the crest of a small ridge, catching my breath, reassessing the trail.
That's when I catch it—a new scent cutting across Ruby's path. My hackles rise instantly, a growl rumbling in my chest.
Wolf. But wrong somehow. Corrupted. The scent carries the distinctive rotten-egg undertone I've encountered only once before, during a border skirmish not long ago at all.
Cheslem.
