Page 11 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Walk with me," Luna says, guiding me toward a quiet path that leads away from the Hollow. Once we're beyond earshot of the celebration, she speaks. "You're looking for a way out."
It's not a question. I nod anyway, grateful for her directness.
"Is there one?" I ask, hating the desperate edge in my voice. "Some loophole, some exception?"
Luna's silence stretches long enough to answer before she actually speaks. "The lottery is binding, Sera. More than just tradition—it's pack law."
"Even when the match is clearly wrong? When both parties are..." I struggle for the right word, "...incompatible?"
"Even then." Luna stops walking, turning to face me fully. In the moonlight filtering through the trees, her expression is gentle but resolute. "The lottery doesn't make mistakes."
"With all due respect, Luna, this is one giant mistake." My voice rises slightly. "Dylan Zaleska has made it abundantly clear what he thinks of me—of all former Cheslem members. And I can't..." My throat tightens unexpectedly. "I can't be with someone who sees enemies everywhere. Who responds to everything with aggression. Not after Matthias."
Understanding softens Luna's eyes. "Dylan isn't Matthias."
"No, but he's..." I gesture helplessly. "He's everything I've been trying to escape. The constant vigilance, the suspicion, the anger. I can't live like that again."
"What about what Dylan needs?" Luna asks quietly.
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"Have you considered that perhaps this match isn't just about what you need, but what he needs as well?" Luna's gaze is steady, penetrating. “You might be what he needs to become…” She trails off.
“To become what?” I demand. “Bearable?”
Despite herself, Luna snorts a little, quickly concealing it as a cough. When she next speaks, her voice is gentle but firm. "Dylan has been existing, not living, for six months. Perhaps what he needs most isn't someone who agrees with him, butsomeone who challenges him. Who reminds him there's more to life than preventing the next tragedy."
I shake my head, unwilling to accept this responsibility. "I can't fix him, Luna. That’s not my job."
"No one's asking you to. But maybe—just maybe—you need each other in ways neither of you can see yet. You won’t know until you try.”
The night air feels suddenly heavy, laden with implications I'm not ready to face. "Is there truly no way out? What if... what if I left? Just disappeared?"
Luna's expression hardens slightly. "You mean become a rogue? Alone, unprotected, hunted by any pack you encounter?" Her voice softens again. "You wouldn't survive a month, Sera. Not with your shift still unstable."
The brutal truth hangs between us. My shift—weakened by years of malnutrition and trauma in my old pack—barely manifests these days. In wolf form, I'm smaller and weaker than most, vulnerable in ways that would make solitary survival nearly impossible. To live as a rogue, I'd need to be stronger than I've ever been. Instead, I'm the weakest I've ever been.
"So I'm trapped," I whisper. "Bound to a man who can barely stand to look at me."
"Bound to a possibility," Luna corrects gently. "One month, Sera. Give it one month before you decide it's hopeless."
One month. The traditional waiting period before the mating bond must be formalized. Four weeks to find an alternative, or to somehow reconcile myself to a life yoked to Silvercreek's most rigid, suspicious, anger-driven wolf.
"I should get back," Luna says, touching my arm lightly. "Nic will be looking for me. Will you be alright?"
I manage a nod, though nothing about this situation feels remotely alright. Luna hesitates, then embraces me briefly before heading back toward the lights and sounds of the continuing celebration.
Alone in the shadows between towering pines, I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the mild spring evening. The universe has a sick sense of humor. Of all the males in Silvercreek, the lottery paired me with the one most likely to make me miserable—the one whose very presence reminds me of everything I've fought to escape.
Even worse is the small, treacherous part of me that isn't entirely surprised. That recognizes something in Dylan Zaleska that resonates despite all logic—a shared understanding of loss, of having your world destroyed and being forced to rebuild from broken pieces. Different paths, same wounds.
No. I shut down that thought immediately. There is nothing between us but mutual dislike and circumstantial obligation.
Through the trees, I can see the celebration continuing. Dylan stands stiffly at the edge of the gathering, clearly enduring rather than enjoying the congratulations. Our eyes meet briefly across the distance, and something passes between us—not understanding, certainly not acceptance, but recognition of our shared predicament.
One month to figure this out. One month to find an escape that doesn't end with me dead in the woods or him disgraced before his pack.
But as I watch him scan the perimeter with habitual vigilance, even in the midst of celebration, a cold certainty settles in my chest. There is no escape from this. The lottery hasspoken, tradition demands compliance, and neither of us has the luxury of refusal.
