Page 22 of Fat Arranged Mate
The walk home gives me time to organize my thoughts before reporting to Dylan. We've settled into an uneasy rhythm over the past week—professional during mission discussions, coldly polite during shared meals, and carefully distant at all other times. The lottery match hangs between us, unacknowledged but ever-present, a future neither of us wants to face.
As I approach our cottage, something feels off. Dylan's car is in the driveway, but no lights shine from within. He's usually obsessively punctual about checking in when either of us returns home.
I unlock the door cautiously, senses alert. "Dylan?"
No response. The cottage is empty, his scent present but not fresh. He left at least an hour ago.
On the kitchen table, I find his laptop open, screen dark but still warm. I press a key, illuminating a detailed map of Pinecrest with locations marked in red—Blackridge Outfitters, the Sheriff's Office, and several residential addresses I don't recognize.
Next to the laptop lies a small notebook filled with Dylan's precise handwriting—names, dates, vehicle descriptions. Surveillance notes. And a plastic evidence bag containing what appears to be a clump of fur labeled "Sample #3—Miller's Creek."
He's been conducting his own investigation without telling me.
I'm still processing this discovery when the back door opens. Dylan freezes momentarily when he sees me standing over his materials, then continues inside, shutting the door with deliberate care.
"You're home early," he says, as if that's the issue here.
"And you're conducting investigations without informing me." I gesture to the evidence bag. "What is this?"
"Fur sample from the alleged attack site." He moves past me to the laptop, closing it without explanation. "I retrieved it before the Guardians' cleanup crew arrived. I’m almost certain it didn’t come from a shifter.”
"And when were you planning to share this information?"
"When I had something concrete to report." Dylan begins gathering his notes, movements efficient and unapologetic. "I've been tracking their patrol patterns. Three teams, rotating schedules. They're organized but not particularly subtle."
The casual dismissal ignites something in me. "We're supposed to be partners on this mission."
"We are partners."
"Partners share information. They don't run solo operations without backup."
Dylan finally looks at me directly, his expression impassive. "I didn't want to disturb your clinic infiltration. It's yielding valuable intelligence."
"That's not the point, and you know it." I step closer, frustrated by his deliberate obtuseness. "The point is you didn't trust me enough to include me."
"It's not about trust. It's about efficiency." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You've been establishing yourposition at the clinic. I've been tracking the Guardians directly. Division of labor."
"Without consultation. Without coordination." My voice rises slightly. "What if you'd been caught? What if they'd followed you back here? I wouldn't have known anything was wrong until it was too late."
"I wasn't caught. I'm not amateur enough to lead them back to our location." The condescension in his tone makes my teeth clench.
"That's not—" I take a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "This isn't about your competence. It's about communication. Basic partnership protocol."
"My approach gets results." He holds up the evidence bag. "This could confirm whether they're targeting actual shifters or just normal wolves. That's critical intelligence."
"And my approach—building relationships, gathering context, understanding the community dynamics—that's not important?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. You made it clear by excluding me entirely from this aspect of the mission."
He sighs, a sound of barely contained impatience. "Look, surveillance and tracking is what I do. You're better at the social infiltration. We're playing to our strengths."
"Without coordination. Without a shared plan." I cross my arms. "That's not teamwork, Dylan. That's you doing whatever you want and expecting me to fall in line."
"I expected you to focus on your area of expertise while I focused on mine." His control slips slightly, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Not everything needs committee approval."
"This does! What if I'd mentioned Miller's Creek to someone at the clinic today? What if I'd unwittingly compromised your investigation because I didn't know it was happening?"
