Page 48 of Fat Sold Mate
Beside me, I sense rather than see James stirring. Through our bond, I feel his immediate awareness, the awkward uncertainty that mirrors my own. Neither of us speaks. What could we possibly say? Sorry, I used you for comfort sex during a trauma? Thanks for the orgasm, let's never mention it again?
I make the mistake of shifting position and wince as various parts of my body register complaints. Apparently, frantic cave sex with a shifter leaves marks. Who knew?
“You're hurt,” James says, breaking the silence with concern that makes this whole situation somehow worse.
“I'm fine,” I reply automatically, forcing myself to sit up despite the protest from muscles I didn't even know I had.
“You're not,” he counters, moving as if to touch me, then thinking better of it. “I can smell the pain on you. I was too rough—”
“Please,” I interrupt, holding up a hand while heat floods my cheeks. “Can we just... not? Not now.”
James falls silent, but I feel his concern and guilt pulsing through our bond like a second heartbeat. Great. Now he feels sorry for me. Just what my pride needed after everything else.
I struggle to my feet, ignoring the various twinges and aches, and reach for my pack. “We should get moving. Find those research notes Sera mentioned.”
James watches me for a long moment, his amber eyes unreadable. “You can barely walk.”
“I'm fine,” I repeat, more sharply than intended. “Just... stiff from sleeping on stone.”
We both know it's a lie, but he doesn't call me on it, just nods and begins gathering his own belongings. The careful distance he maintains speaks volumes—last night was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment neither of us intends to repeat.
Which is exactly what I want. Obviously.
By unspoken agreement, we focus on practicalities as we prepare to leave our shelter. James explains what he knows of the Cheslem territory from his time as Nic's enforcer, sketching a rough map on the dirt floor of the cave.
“Their main compound should be here,” he says, marking a spot about ten miles northeast of our current position. “It's an old hunting lodge that's been expanded over the years.”
I kneel beside him, careful to maintain distance between our bodies. “Will it be heavily guarded?”
“It should be,” he says, frowning. “But with the attacks on Silvercreek, Matthias might have committed most of his forces there.”
The mention of our pack sends a pang through me. “Do you think they're okay? Luna and the others?”
James's expression softens slightly. “Nic will protect them. And Luna's magic is strong.”
Unlike mine, it hangs unspoken between us.
Except... I did cast that shield spell. For one brief, shining moment, my magic worked when I needed it most. The memory glows within me like an ember, something to be protected and nurtured.
“Let's go,” I say, shouldering my pack with a determination I don't entirely feel.
Outside, the morning is crisp and clear, the forest washed clean by overnight rain. I hadn't even registered falling. We move cautiously, James frequently pausing to scent the air for signs of pursuit or danger. Through our bond, I feel his heightened alertness, his constant vigilance—the protectiveness that both irritates and reassures me.
My body's complaints fade into the background as we hike through increasingly unfamiliar territory. Every step takes us deeper into Cheslem lands, the forest gradually changing character. The healthy vibrancy of Silvercreek's territory gives way to something subtly wrong—trees with blackened patches on their bark, undergrowth that seems to shrink away from our passing, wildlife conspicuously absent except for the occasional crow watching with too-intelligent eyes.
“The corruption affects everything,” James murmurs, noticing my gaze on a sickly pine. “Not just the wolves. The land itself is poisoned.”
I clutch my grimoire tighter, suddenly aware of the magic that flows through all living things—magic I've always sensed but never been able to fully access. Until yesterday.
By mid-afternoon, we reach the outskirts of what must be the Cheslem compound. From our position on a forested ridge, we can see the sprawling hunting lodge nestled in a clearing below—an imposing structure of dark wood and stone with several outbuildings arranged around it.
“Something's wrong,” James says, his brow furrowing as he surveys the scene. “There's no movement. No guards.”
He's right. The compound lies eerily still in the afternoon sun, with no sign of the bustling pack activity that should be present even with reduced numbers. Windows stand open, doors ajar, as if the inhabitants left in a hurry.
“Maybe they're all at Silvercreek,” I suggest, dread pooling in my stomach at the thought.
James shakes his head. “No. There's always a skeleton crew. Pups, elders, the infirm.” His frown deepens. “And I smell corruption. Strong, concentrated. Different from the scouts we encountered.”
