Page 14 of Fat Sold Mate
I force a laugh, ignoring the pain it causes in my bruised ribs. “You overestimate my importance.”
Petra's lips curve into a smile that never reaches her eyes. “Do I? Then why were you running, little witch? What drives a woman to flee her pack in the dead of night?”
The question hangs in the musty air of the abandoned hunting cabin. Outside, morning sunlight filters through pine branches, casting dappled shadows across the rough-hewn floor.We're somewhere in Cheslem territory, though I couldn't say how far. After my capture, I drifted in and out of consciousness as they dragged me here.
“Maybe I just got tired of the company,” I say, meeting her gaze with defiance I don't entirely feel.
Petra laughs, the sound like broken glass. “Oh, I doubt that. No one leaves their pack without reason.” She crouches before me, her face inches from mine. “Especially not on the night of a lottery ceremony.”
My surprise must show, because her smile widens. “Yes, we know about that. Our scouts watch your quaint little rituals. Tell me, Ruby Mulligan—were you there?”
The question twists like a knife. “None of your business.”
“I think it is my business,” she says, gripping my chin with bruising force. “Considering you're now my property.”
I wrench my face away. “I'm nobody's property.”
“You're whatever I say you are.” She straightens, addressing her companions. “We may have missed our target, but this one might still serve our purpose.”
The mountain man snorts. “What purpose? She can't even access her magic properly, by the looks of it, or she would have broken free. She’s defective.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation. Even here, among enemies, my inadequacies are common knowledge.
“Magic isn't everything,” Petra says, thoughtful. “Sometimes leverage is more valuable. The question is, who values her most?”
“We could ransom her back to Silvercreek,” Damon suggests.
“Or we could just kill her,” the mountain man counters. “Send a message.”
They continue debating my fate as if I'm not even here, a piece of furniture rather than a person. Rage builds in my chest, hot and choking.
“You won't get away with this,” I snarl, straining against my bindings until fresh blood slicks my wrists. “Silvercreek will—”
“Silvercreek will what?” Petra interrupts. “Come charging to your rescue? Please. Who would bother, for something like you?”
The truth in her words stings more than my injuries. I think of all the years of sideways glances and whispered comments. The isolation. The constant reminders that I don't quite belong.
She sees the doubt in my eyes and presses her advantage. “They won't risk war for an outcast witch who can't even shift.”
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But that doesn't mean I'll make this easy for you.”
“I'm counting on it,” Petra says with that terrible smile. “The difficult ones are always more entertaining to break.”
A sudden crash interrupts whatever threat might have followed. The cabin door splinters inward, wood fragments exploding across the room. In the doorway stands a figure backlit by morning sun, tall and radiating fury.
James.
His amber eyes burn with primal rage, his body poised on the edge of shifting. He takes in the scene in an instant—me, bloodied and bound; the three Cheslem shifters, now alert and hostile.
“Let her go.” His voice is barely human, his wolf so close to the surface I can almost see it shimmering beneath his skin.
Petra recovers first, her surprise melting into calculating interest. “Well, well. Silvercreek's enforcer, all alone in enemy territory. How reckless.”
James's gaze never leaves me, cataloging every injury with growing fury. “I won't ask again.”
Damon and the mountain man move to flank him, blocking the exit. Three against one, with me unable to help. The odds are impossible.
“James, get out of here,” I call, fear for him overriding everything else. “They'll kill you.”
