Page 32 of Fat Sold Mate
“I'm fine.” I roll my shoulder to demonstrate, hiding the wince as pain lances through freshly knitting muscle. “Shifter healing, remember?”
“I remember.” Her voice has something I can’t quite describe in it. Longing, perhaps, or just exhaustion. I know it must have felt like a jab to her. “But even shifters need sleep to heal properly.”
Before I can argue further, she unrolls the emergency blanket on the floor beside the woodstove. “I'll take first watch. You sleep.”
The simple act of her making a bed on the floor while insisting I take the cot stirs something in my chest that has nothing to do with the bond and everything to do with the woman herself. Stubborn, resilient, unexpected.
“Ruby—”
“Just take the cot, James,” she interrupts, a thread of exhaustion making her voice rough. “Please. I'm too tired to argue.”
I give in, moving to the narrow bed that will barely accommodate my frame. As I stretch out, the scent of dust and old fabric fills my nostrils, but beneath it, I catch Ruby's scent—wild herbs and paper and something uniquely her that makes my wolf pace restlessly beneath my skin.
Ruby settles by the window, her back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. The morning light plays across her features, softening the wariness that's become habitual. For a moment, she looks younger, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows anyone to see.
“We make a good team,” I say quietly, the words escaping before I can filter them. “Out there. Fighting.”
Ruby glances at me, surprise flickering in her amber eyes. She doesn’t say a word, and that’s worse, I find myself thinking, than if she had torn me apart.
Rolling away, I close my eyes, surrendering to the exhaustion that drags at my limbs. The bond hums between us, quieter now but still present—a tether connecting us across the small room. Through it, I feel Ruby's vigilance, her determination, and beneath that, a confusion that mirrors my own.
This forced connection between us is changing, evolving into something neither of us anticipated. Something that feels dangerously close to understanding, to partnership, to possibilities I shouldn't consider.
Sleep claims me before I can pursue that thought further, but even in dreams, I'm aware of Ruby's presence—the sound of her breathing, the subtle shifts of her movement, the invisible thread that binds us together against our will. It’s a tension that follows me into my dreams.
Chapter 11 - Ruby
Dusk settles over the forest like an exhale, the day's heat dissolving into purple twilight as I struggle with the rusted lock of the abandoned ranger station. Days of running, of makeshift shelters and constant vigilance, have left my nerves frayed and my patience thin. The metal gives suddenly beneath my hairpin, the door swinging inward with a groan that echoes my own exhaustion.
“Finally,” I mutter, stepping into the musty darkness of what will be our fourth temporary sanctuary in as many days.
Behind me, James surveys our surroundings one last time before following, his tall frame silhouetted against the dying light. The bond between us pulses with his wariness, his constant vigilance—feelings I can no longer completely separate from my own.
“It'll do,” he says, securing the door behind us. “Better than that hunting blind last night.”
I don't respond, busy taking stock of our new shelter. The ranger station is small but sturdy—a single room with dust-covered furniture, a wood stove, and windows on all sides that make it both defensible and dangerous. Perfect for watching for threats, terrible for hiding from them.
“We're further from Silvercreek than I've ever been,” I say, moving to the window that faces east, toward the only home I've ever known. “There’s a state line between us now.”
James sets down his pack, rolling his shoulder where the corrupted wolf's bite is still healing. “Me too,” he admits. “Never had reason to venture this far.”
The unspoken reality hangs between us—that we might never make it back, that Silvercreek might not even exist as we knew it if the Cheslem pack succeeds. That we are, for all intents and purposes, alone in the world except for each other.
And that's the problem, isn't it? The being alone together part. The bond hums between us, stronger each day, demanding acknowledgment we refuse to give. I move away from the window, putting distance between us that does nothing to lessen the awareness crackling like static whenever we're in the same room.
“I'll check for supplies,” I say, needing occupation. “Maybe the rangers left something useful.”
James nods, already setting up our usual defensive measures—makeshift alarms near doors and windows, escape routes identified and cleared. We've fallen into routines over these days of flight, working together with an efficiency that would be satisfying under any other circumstances.
I rummage through the cabinets, finding a few useful items—matches, a first aid kit with actual bandages rather than the scraps we've been using, and a couple of canned goods that are well past their expiration date but still edible in our desperate situation.
“Jackpot,” James announces from a small closet. “Kerosene lamp. And it's still got fuel.”
Small victories. They're all we have right now.
Night falls completely as we settle into the space, the lamp casting warm light and long shadows across the dusty floor. James heats water on the wood stove for our meager dinner—instant soup packets salvaged from a vending machine at an abandoned visitor center yesterday. I sit cross-legged on the floor, my mother's grimoire open on my lap.
The leather-bound book is worn smooth with age and use, the pages fragile and smelling of herbs and candle wax. I've been carrying it since my panicked flight from Silvercreek, unable to leave behind this last connection to my mother. Now, with night closing in and danger ever-present, I turn to it for desperate, unlikely solutions.
