Page 53 of Fat Sold Mate
Without repeating what happened in the cave, she means. Without giving in to the hunger that pulses between us like a living thing, growing stronger with each moment, we pretend it doesn't exist.
“Right,” I agree, though every instinct in my body screams otherwise. “Just sleep.”
The bond between us hums with shared awareness, with the knowledge that whatever lies ahead in Silvercreek, this might be our last moment of relative peace. Our last chance to acknowledge what's growing between us before war consumes everything.
But neither of us speaks the words hovering on the edge of utterance, and the moment passes, leaving only the silent hotel room and the long night ahead.
Chapter 19 - Ruby
The universe hasn't been content to merely throw us together—it seems determined to force us into every romantic comedy cliché imaginable.
Except there's nothing comedic about this situation. Not when the memory of the cave night still burns on my skin. Not when the bond between us pulses with every heartbeat, a constant reminder of what we are to each other.
What we did to each other.
“You can shower first,” James offers, setting his pack carefully on the small desk wedged into the corner. “I'll check the perimeter.”
“Check the perimeter?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “It's a motel room, not a military encampment.”
He doesn't smile. “Habit.”
I grab my meager toiletries without further comment and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door even though it's a pointless gesture. A locked door wouldn't stop a determined shifter, and besides, the bond between us means there's no real privacy anymore. Not the kind that matters.
The shower is lukewarm at best, the pressure barely enough to rinse shampoo from my hair, but it's still the closest thing to luxury I've experienced in days. I stand under the spray until my fingers wrinkle, postponing the inevitable return to the room—to James—for as long as possible.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in the threadbare motel towel because I forgot to bring clean clothes in my haste to escape, James is standing at the window, peering through the curtains with that hyper-vigilance that never seems to leave him.
“All clear?” I ask, aiming for casual despite the way his eyes track the water droplets sliding down my neck.
“For now,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. He clears his throat, gaze snapping back to my face with visible effort. “I'll, uh—my turn.”
He grabs his own pack and disappears into the bathroom, the door closing perhaps more firmly than necessary. Through our bond, I feel the ripple of his discomfort, his struggle for control that mirrors my own.
I dress quickly in my last clean t-shirt and a pair of shorts that have seen better days, then settle on the edge of the bed with Sera's journal. The leather-bound book is heavier than it looks, its pages densely filled with cramped handwriting and diagrams that speak of years of research and observation.
I flip to the section I found earlier, the description of the counter-ritual that could potentially cleanse the corruption from the Cheslem wolves. Reading more carefully now, my suspicions are confirmed in black and white:
The purification requires a conduit strong enough to channel the cleansing energy—a mate bond, fully consummated and accepted by both parties. The witch-born must draw power through this connection, amplifying their natural abilities beyond normal limitations.
My stomach twists with a complicated blend of emotions. The cave night—our desperate coming together in grief and need—technically fulfilled this requirement. We are, by blood and magic and now by physical joining, fully bonded mates.
But does he “accept” me? Could he even begin to? There's the sticking point—it’s the part I’ll never fully believe, the part of his protection and care I’ll never buy into. The way James has been so careful not to touch me since that night, the guilt Ifeel pulsing from him through our bond... he clearly regrets what happened between us. And why wouldn't he? I'm not what he would have chosen—the witch-born outcast who can't even shift, the burden he's been forced to claim as mate.
And then there are his words from months ago, still burning in my memory. The casual cruelty of his laughter as he described someone—me, it had to be me—as “enormous” and “the fattest thing I've ever seen.” How could I ever tell him that our bond, this connection he never wanted, is now the only hope for saving our pack?
I couldn’t. Of course, I couldn’t. It has to be Luna, I tell myself, ignoring the prickle of unease inside me at this. Luna has more magic in her pinky finger than I do in my whole body. And her mate actually loves her.
The bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam, and James emerges wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants, his chest still damp from the shower. I snap the journal closed, perhaps too quickly.
“Find anything useful?” he asks, toweling his hair dry.
“Still working through it,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “The counter-ritual is... complicated.”
He sits on the opposite edge of the bed, maintaining a careful distance between us. “Complicated how?”
“Magically,” I reply vaguely. “It requires specific components, precise timing. Things we'll need Luna's help to understand fully.”
It's not entirely a lie, but the omission sits heavy on my conscience. James studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he can sense my deception through the bond. If he does, he doesn't call me on it.
