Page 23 of Fat Sold Mate
“Thomas's hunting cabin. Far enough north that we should have some breathing room, but I don't know for how long.”
Nic is quiet for a moment, thinking. I can almost see him pacing his office, plotting strategy as he always does. “Stay there,” he says finally. “At least for a few days. We've detected Cheslem scouts at three breach points along our borders. Lunais working on strengthening the boundary wards her parents set up.”
“The wards?” I ask, thinking of the protective magic our mother established years ago—the same barriers that helped prevent the Cheslem attack after Luna's lottery. “Have they weakened that much since Luna reinforced them a few months ago?”
“They're still holding,” Nic confirms, “but Luna detected several attempts to breach them in the last twelve hours. She's working with our mother's grimoire again to strengthen the weak points.”
Hope flickers briefly. If anyone can maintain those protective boundaries, it's my sister. Where I inherited our father's shifting abilities, Luna got our mother's magical talent—a division that led us down very different paths in Silvercreek. The reminder of her witchcraft sends my thoughts immediately to Ruby, to her own witch mother, and the magical heritage she has, as far as I know, never accessed.
“How long?” I ask.
“A few days, at least. Thomas is tracking suspected Cheslem spies within our territory. Once we secure the borders and flush out any infiltrators, we'll send someone for you.”
“We'll need another vehicle,” I say, glancing at the stolen truck. “This one's too recognizable.”
“There should be an old Jeep in the garage,” Nic confirms. “Keys in the usual place.”
Rain falls harder now, thunder rumbling in the distance like the growl of an approaching predator. Despite the discomfort, I'm reluctant to end the call—to return to the tense silence of the cabin and Ruby's justified anger.
“Nic,” I say, the question escaping before I can stop it, “how did you and Luna... after the lottery... how did you make it work?”
My friend has been quiet for so long, I wonder if the call has dropped. Finally, he sighs. “We were lucky, James. What we have—it was there from the beginning, beneath the surface. The lottery just gave us permission to find it.” He pauses. “Your situation is different.”
“That's one way to put it,” I mutter.
“Give her time,” Nic advises. “This bond wasn't her choice. Wasn't yours either, not really. But it's done now.”
“Yeah.” I stare up at the darkening sky, letting rain wash over my face. “It's done.”
We end the call with promises to check in as often as we can, and security protocols are established in case communications are compromised. Practical matters, easier to focus on than the emotional minefield waiting inside.
When I re-enter the cabin, Ruby is exactly where I left her, a sentinel at the window. She's found a towel from somewhere, and she holds it out wordlessly as I drip on the worn floorboards.
“Thanks,” I say, surprised by the small gesture.
She shrugs, returning to her vigil. “You'll catch pneumonia, and then I'll be stuck here alone.”
“Your concern is touching.”
Her mouth tightens, but she says nothing.
I dry off as best I can, acutely aware of her presence across the room. The bond pulses between us, a persistent reminder of our unwanted connection. Through it, I sense herexhaustion, her pain, though she hides both behind rigid posture and sharp words.
“You're hurt,” I say, moving toward the kitchenette where a basic first aid kit hangs beside the sink. “Let me look at those cuts.”
“I'm fine.” The words snap like brittle twigs.
“You're not.” I open the kit, laying out antiseptic wipes and bandages. “And I can feel it, Ruby. Whether you admit it or not.”
Her eyes widen slightly at this reminder of our bond before narrowing in defiance. “So what? You think playing nurse will make up for what happened today?”
The accusation stings, all the more because there's truth in it. “No,” I admit. “Nothing makes up for that. But infection won't improve the situation.”
For a moment, I think she'll refuse out of pure stubbornness. Then, with visible reluctance, she approaches the small table where I've laid out the supplies. She sits stiffly, extending her injured hand.
I unwrap the makeshift bandage from her palm, revealing the deep cut from Petra's knife. The wound is angry, crusted with dried blood, but doesn't show signs of infection yet. Small mercies.
“This will sting,” I warn unnecessarily before cleaning the cut.
