Page 12 of Fat Arranged Mate
I am to be mated to Dylan Zaleska, Silvercreek's most damaged defender.
And we are both, in our own ways, utterly trapped.
Chapter 4 - Dylan
I can still hear them celebrating behind me, their laughter and music carrying through the trees like I should be joining them instead of pacing alone at the forest's edge. Like this is something to celebrate.
Sera Daley. Of all the eligible females in Silvercreek, the lottery choseher.
I rake my fingers through my hair, probably making it stand on end. The universe has a sick sense of humor. Or maybe it's the elders—I wouldn't put it past Elder Amelia to engineer this disaster for her own amusement. The woman has been pushing for the "integration" of the Cheslem refugees since they arrived.
A twig snaps behind me, and I spin instantly, senses on high alert. But it's just James, Nic’s best friend and my direct superior, approaching with two bottles of beer.
"Thought you might need this," he says, extending one toward me.
I accept it wordlessly, appreciating that he doesn't offer congratulations or, worse, advice. We stand in silence for a moment, looking back toward the Hollow where torchlight still flickers.
"It's not the end of the world," James finally says, taking a swig from his bottle.
"Says the man who got a mate that actually likes him."
His lips quirk. "You think that was easy? She hated me at first."
"Sera doesn't just hate me," I reply automatically. "I think she’d strangle me if she had half a chance.”
"And what do you think of her?"
I shrug, unwilling to voice the complicated tangle of impressions that constitute my thoughts on Sera Daley. How am I supposed to explain that while I find her politics naïve and dangerous, her stubborn defense of those same principles makes something in my chest tighten? That I've caught myself watching the way sunlight catches in her hair? That her scent makes my wolf stir with interest even as her words make me want to growl in frustration?
"She's... complicated," I finally say.
James nods like I've said something profound instead of completely inadequate. "The lottery doesn't make mistakes, Dylan."
"So everyone keeps saying." I take a long pull from my beer. "Doesn't mean it's true."
He claps me on the shoulder, then leaves me to my brooding. I'm grateful. Social niceties have never been my strong suit, and tonight, they're beyond me entirely.
As the celebration begins to wane, I spot her—a solitary figure slipping away from the Hollow, moving deeper into the forest. Before I can reconsider, I'm following, drawn by the need to confront this situation head-on.
She's not hard to track. Her scent, now tinged with stress, leads me to a small clearing where moonlight filters through the canopy. She stands with her back to me, arms wrapped around herself, blonde hair silver in the moonlight.
"Daley," I say, making my presence known.
She doesn't startle. Either she heard me coming or she's too lost in thought to react.
"Zaleska." Her voice is flat, resigned.
"We should talk."
"About how spectacularly terrible this is?" She turns to face me, her expression composed despite the tension evident in every line of her body. "Or about how we're going to get out of it?"
"Is that what you want? Out?" The question comes automatically, though I already know the answer.
"Don't you?" Her eyes find mine, direct and challenging. "I'm the last person you want to be paired with. We both know that."
I move closer, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to converse privately, far enough to maintain some semblance of distance. "What I want doesn't matter. Pack law—"
"Don't." She cuts me off, a sharp gesture punctuating the word. "Don't give me the party line about tradition and duty. Not right now."
