Page 37 of Fat Sold Mate
And that realization, more than any Cheslem threat, terrifies me to my core.
Chapter 13 - Ruby
Sunlight streams through the ranger station's grimy windows, painting warm patterns across my face that eventually drag me from restless dreams. I blink awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling and the lingering vestiges of a dream I can't quite remember but that leaves me flushed and unsettled.
The sound of quiet voices draws my attention to the far corner of the room. James and Sera sit cross-legged on the floor, heads bent together over what appears to be a collection of plants spread across a faded bandana. James listens intently as Sera demonstrates something, her slender fingers crushing leaves between them, releasing a sharp, pungent aroma that fills the small space.
“Cedar works best,” she's explaining, “but pine needles have a similar effect if you bruise them right.”
James nods, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he leans closer to examine her technique. “And this really masks a shifter’s scent?”
“Not completely,” Sera admits, “but it confuses it enough to throw off trackers. My mother taught me once. The Cheslem scouts rely too heavily on their enhanced senses—it makes them vulnerable to simple countermeasures.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest at the easy rapport between them. I sit up abruptly, drawing their attention.
“Morning,” James says, his eyes meeting mine briefly before sliding away. There's a wariness there that wasn't present yesterday, a deliberate distance that stirs both relief and irritation in equal measure.
“You should have woken me earlier,” I say, running a hand through tangled hair. “I didn't mean to sleep so long.”
“You needed the rest,” James replies with a shrug that's too carefully casual. “We all did.”
Sera offers a tentative smile, her amber eyes—so like mine, like James's—bright with an energy that belies her injuries. “I was just showing James how to mask our scents. The Cheslem scouts will be looking for us.”
I move to join them, ignoring the twinge of something that feels uncomfortably like jealousy. It's ridiculous, of course. James isn't mine, regardless of the forced bond between us. And Sera is barely more than a child, injured and afraid. The fact that they've found common ground should be a relief, not a source of this irrational prickle beneath my skin.
“Show me too,” I say, settling across from them, careful to maintain distance from James. The bond between us pulses with awareness despite my efforts, a constant reminder of connections I don't want to examine too closely.
Sera demonstrates again, this time for my benefit, explaining how certain plants can interfere with a shifter's tracking abilities when applied correctly. I watch her hands—confident despite her youth, moving with the practiced grace of someone taught well and early.
“Your grandmother taught you this?” I ask, accepting a sprig of something that smells like mint but looks nothing like it.
Sera nods, a shadow crossing her features. “She taught me everything she could before...” She trails off, the loss still too raw for words.
“And she was a witch,” I prompt gently.
“Yes.” Pride brightens Sera's expression. “One of the last in the Cheslem territory. Most fled or were killed when the corruption began spreading under Manox and then Matthias.”
My grimoire sits atop my pack nearby, its worn leather cover a constant temptation and reminder of my own inadequacies. Sera's gaze follows mine, widening with recognition.
“Is that yours?” she asks, reverence coloring her voice. “A witch's grimoire?”
I hesitate before nodding. “My mother's. She was teaching me before she died.”
“You're a witch too,” Sera breathes, excitement replacing her earlier caution. “You cast?”
“Not really,” I admit, flushing with shame. “I can’t—my mother died suddenly. She didn’t have much time to teach me.”
James makes a noncommittal sound, drawing Sera's curious gaze.
“You're witch-born too,” she observes, noting his amber eyes. “But you’re not magical?”
“No,” he says shortly, the single syllable closing the subject with finality.
I resist the urge to press the issue, to reopen last night's argument about his rejection of his magical heritage. Instead, I reach for my grimoire, running my fingers over its familiar surface.
“I'm not much of a witch,” I admit. “Not like my mother was. Not like James's sister, Luna.”
“But you've had training,” Sera insists, her enthusiasm undimmed. “More training than me, at least. Even basicknowledge could help with the counter-ritual my grandmother was developing.”
