Page 64 of Fat Sold Mate
“What do you mean?” Nic asks, suddenly alert.
Caleb shifts uncomfortably, the chains rattling with his movement. “The full moon. Three days from now. He's been preparing for months, gathering power, corrupting more wolves. The captives he's taken—he plans to use them in a ritual. A sacrifice.”
Ice spreads through my veins. “Elder Victoria? The others?”
Caleb nods grimly. “Their power, their life force—he'll use it to strengthen the corruption in his inner circle. Make them nearly unstoppable.” His gaze meets mine, fear and determination warring in his expression. “And once he's done, Silvercreek will be next.”
“How do you know this?” Nic demands, skepticism edging his words.
“Because I was supposed to be part of it,” Caleb admits, shame coloring his voice. “Before Sera showed me there was another way. Before she helped me start fighting the corruption. It’s why I ran after she left. I wanted to find her. I ended up here instead.”
Luna and I exchange glances, the implications settling between us with terrible weight.
“Three days,” I murmur. “The counter-ritual requires preparation. Ingredients we might not have.”
“And the captured wolves won't survive the full moon,” Caleb adds quietly. “Not if Matthias completes his ritual.”
Nic's expression hardens into the mask of leadership I've seen so often on James's face—determination overriding fear, calculation replacing emotion.
“Then we have three days to mount a rescue and prepare your counter-ritual,” he says with finality. “Impossible odds. Just another day in Silvercreek.”
Luna smiles grimly. “We've faced worse.”
“Have we?” I can't help asking.
Her hand finds mine, squeezing with surprising strength. “We have you now. And James. And this.” She nods toward the journal peeking from my bag. “Sometimes the universe gives us exactly what we need, exactly when we need it most.”
I want to believe her. Want to believe that our forced mating, Sera's sacrifice, all the pain and fear of the past weeks serve some greater purpose. That the bond humming between James and me—complicated and unwanted as it began—might be the very thing that saves us all.
But as Caleb's words echo in my mind, as the full moon's deadline looms just three days away, I can't shake the feeling that we're already too late. That some prices are too high, even for survival.
That some bonds, once broken, can never truly be repaired.
Chapter 24 - James
Silvercreek hums with preparations for war. Every able-bodied shifter has been assigned duties—reinforcing defenses, crafting weapons, organizing strike teams. Even the youngest pack members contribute, rolling bandages and preparing herbal poultices under the supervision of our few healers. The full moon looms just three days away, a deadline none of us can afford to ignore.
I've thrown myself into training, my muscles burning with satisfying exhaustion as I drill combat formations with Thomas and the other enforcers. Physical pain is a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil that lurks at the edges of my consciousness, pulsing through the bond I share with Ruby.
“Your left guard is sloppy,” Thomas observes, landing another hit to my ribs that will bruise despite shifter healing. “That's the third time I've tagged you there.”
“Just keeping you confident,” I mutter, rolling my shoulder to ease the ache.
Thomas snorts, unconvinced. “Sure. Nothing to do with you being completely distracted by whatever's happening between you and your mate.”
The word 'mate' still causes a complicated twist in my gut. Not because I reject the connection—if anything, the opposite is true. The bond with Ruby has become something I guard fiercely, protect instinctively, despite its forced beginnings. What troubles me is the knowledge that she doesn't feel the same—that for her, our connection represents a prison rather than a possibility.
“Focus, Morgan,” Thomas barks, launching another strike that I barely block in time.
Across the training field, Ruby emerges from the pack house with Luna, both women carrying armfuls of books and herbs. Even at this distance, I'm acutely aware of her—the grace in her movements, the determined set of her shoulders, the way sunlight catches in her hair. The bond between us hums with awareness, with a need I've stopped trying to deny to myself.
This morning, she told me about the counter-ritual's requirements—how our completed mate bond must serve as the conduit for the cleansing magic. How our connection, forced and conflicted as it began, might be the salvation of unwilling Cheslem wolves and, ultimately, our pack.
“I understand if you don't want to,” she'd said, her voice carefully neutral. “It's asking a lot, after everything.”
As if I could refuse her anything at this point. As if the bond between us isn't the most real thing I've felt in years, regardless of how it began.
“I'm in,” I'd told her simply, and the relief in her eyes had been worth any risk.
