Page 33 of Fat Sold Mate
“A concealment spell,” I murmur, scanning the familiar incantation. “If I could just make it work, we might be able to hide our scent, make it harder for them to track us.”
James glances over, skepticism clear in the set of his shoulders. “You've never been able to make those work before.”
The casual dismissal stings more than it should.
“I've never been this desperate before,” I counter. “And the bond... it might help channel energy. That's how it works for Luna and Nic—he made her magic stronger.”
He hands me a mug of soup without comment, but I feel his doubt through our connection. It's like a cold draft, seeping into my determination, making me question myself as I've done my entire life.
I set the soup aside untouched and gather what I need for the spell—a pinch of dried rosemary from my pocket, salvaged from the spice rack at the hunting cabin days ago. A thread from my shirt. A drop of water. Simple components for a simple spell that should, theoretically, be within my limited capabilities.
James watches silently as I arrange these items in the pattern specified in the grimoire, his amber eyes reflecting the lamplight. I try to ignore his presence, to focus only on the energy I'm attempting to gather, but the bond makes that impossible. I feel his every shift, his every breath, his skepticism, and—worse—his pity.
I close my eyes, whispering the words my mother taught me before she died. Words that never quite worked for me the way they did for her, that never flowed with the power Luna seems to access so effortlessly. Words that should be my birthright but have always remained just out of reach.
Nothing happens.
I try again, my voice stronger, focusing on the mental image of our scents being masked, of the corrupted wolves losing our trail. Still nothing—not even the faintest stirring of magical energy.
“Dammit!” I slam the grimoire shut, frustration burning in my throat. “It should work. It's the simplest spell in the book.”
James sighs, the sound grating against my already raw nerves. “Maybe we should focus on practical solutions instead.”
“This is practical,” I snap. “If it worked, we'd be safer.”
“But it doesn't work,” he says, his patience clearly wearing thin. “It never has, Ruby. You've been trying these spells since we were kids, and—”
“And what?” I challenge, rising to my feet, the grimoire clutched against my chest like a shield. “Go ahead, say it. I'm a failure. A disappointment. Not a real witch, not a real wolf. Just the pack reject you got stuck with.”
He stands too, frustration rolling off him in waves that crash against our bond. “That's not what I said.”
“It's what you meant.” The words taste bitter, all the hurt of years of exclusion bubbling to the surface. “It's what everyone in Silvercreek has always meant. Not good enough, not strong enough, not wolf enough.”
“This isn't about Silvercreek,” James counters, his voice tight with controlled anger. “This is about survival. Realsolutions, not wishful thinking. You can’t seriously still be caught up on some kids being mean when we were little, Ruby.”
The dismissal is so casual, so complete, that something snaps inside me. “You would know all about wishful thinking, wouldn't you? Pretending you're not witch-born, too, denying half your heritage so you could fit in with the pack alphas. Some of us weren’t lucky enough to be born with the right half of our parents’ DNA.”
His eyes flash, a warning I ignore.
“At least I had the courage to be who I am,” I continue, unable to stop the torrent of words now that they've started. “You and Luna both had the same mother, the same witch blood. But she embraced it while you ran from it. You let them bully her—bullyme—for years because you were too much of a coward to admit you came from the same place.”
“That's not fair,” he growls, taking a step toward me. “I protected Luna—”
“When it was convenient,” I cut in. “When it didn't threaten your precious status. You never stood up for me.”
“I barely knew you then!”
“You knew exactly who I was! The witch-born girl with no shift who everyone thought was a burden on the pack. You walked right past me a hundred times while your friends made my life hell.”
James runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I've come to recognize. “We were kids, Ruby. And I've apologized for that—”
“No,” I interrupt, “you haven't. Not once. You just decided I should forgive you because it's convenient now that we're stuck together.”
The bond between us vibrates with tension, with anger and hurt, and things neither of us wants to name. It would be easier if it were just antagonism, but beneath the surface, there's something else. A pull, an awareness that makes every argument feel like foreplay to something we're both resisting.
“You think I wanted this?” James gestures sharply between us. “To be bonded to someone who clearly hates me?”
“I don't hate you,” I say, the admission dragged from somewhere deep and honest. “That's the problem.”
