Page 20 of Fat Sold Mate
“About that,” she says, her smile widening. “There's been a slight change of plans.”
“We had a deal,” James says, tension radiating from his rigid shoulders.
“And you've fulfilled your part beautifully,” Petra agrees. “Payment received, bond completed. But I never actually promised to let you leave.”
Of course. I almost laugh at my own naivety. Did we really expect these monsters to honor their word?
“Think of the possibilities,” Petra continues, circling us like a shark scenting blood. “Not just the witch outcast, but Silvercreek's third-in-command. What might your Alpha give to have you both returned safely?”
“So, this was always your plan,” James says, his voice dangerously calm. “The money was just a bonus.”
“Business is business,” Petra shrugs. “And you've made this so much more valuable by bonding with her. Now we have leverage against the entire pack. After all, what happens to one mate happens to the other, doesn't it?”
Through our new bond, I feel James's fury building like a gathering storm. It crashes against my consciousness, separate from my own emotions, yet impossible to ignore.
“I wouldn't do this if I were you,” he warns quietly.
Petra laughs. “And why is that? You're outnumbered, enforcer. Your mate can't shift. You've walked into our territory alone, with no backup. I'd say we have all the advantages.”
What happens next unfolds so rapidly that I can barely track the movements. James lunges forward, his body shifting mid-motion in a blur of teeth and fur. His wolf form—massive, russet-colored, terrifying in its controlled rage—tears into Damon before the Cheslem shifter can react.
Verne shifts a heartbeat later, his enormous black wolf charging James. They collide in a frenzy of snarls and snapping jaws, furniture splintering beneath their weight.
Petra turns to me, eyes narrowing. “You're not going anywhere, witch.”
I back away, searching frantically for a weapon. My fingers close around a broken chair leg just as she shifts, her sleek gray wolf form slinking toward me with deadly intent.
The fighting wolves crash against the wall, their combined weight cracking the aged timber. Dust rains from the ceiling as the cabin groans in protest.
I swing the chair leg as Petra lunges, catching her across the muzzle. She yelps in pain and surprise, giving me precious seconds to scramble backward.
James's wolf disengages from Verne long enough to place himself between me and Petra. Blood matts his fur in several places, but his stance remains strong, unwavering. Through our new bond, I feel his singular focus: to protect me.
The absurdity of it all—that this man who purchased me like property now fights to protect me—almost overwhelms me. But there's no time for philosophical crises when death circles on four legs.
An agonized howl cuts through the chaos as James's teeth find Damon's throat. The smaller wolf collapses, not dead but severely wounded. Verne charges again, but James is faster, more skilled. They clash in another flurry of teeth and claws, a deadly ballet of predatory grace.
I edge toward the door, chair leg still clutched in white-knuckled fingers. Petra watches me, calculating, waiting for her opening.
Something crashes through the window—a tree branch, dislodged by the violent struggle inside. The distraction is minimal but enough. I bolt for the door, throwing it open and stumbling into the blinding morning light.
Behind me, snarls and crashes continue, but I feel James's awareness shift to include my escape. Go, he seems to urge through the bond, though no actual words pass between us. Run.
I hesitate for only a second before racing toward the tree line. My body protests, injuries screaming with each step, but survival drowns out the pain.
The sounds of fighting fade slightly, then stop altogether. Footsteps pound behind me—human footsteps, not wolf. I risk a glance back to see James running after me, shirt torn, blood streaking his skin, but moving with determined speed.
“Keep going,” he calls. “They have a truck.”
I follow his direction without question, instinct overriding the complicated emotions I can't process now.Through underbrush and between pines, we run until a dirt access road appears. Parked haphazardly beside it sits an old pickup truck, dusty and dented.
James reaches it first, yanking open the driver's door. “Get in!”
I slide into the passenger seat as he jumps behind the wheel. The engine roars to life with a turn of keys left in the ignition—careless hunters or forest service, I don't know or care.
The truck lurches forward, tires spinning on loose gravel before finding purchase. We careen down the narrow road, branches scraping the sides like desperate fingers trying to hold us back.
“Are they following?” I ask, the first words I've spoken since the ritual.
