Page 23 of Fat Arranged Mate
This finally seems to penetrate his stubborn certainty. A flicker of doubt crosses his features before he masks it. "You wouldn't have done that."
"I might have. That's the point. We can't function effectively if we're keeping secrets."
"It wasn't a secret. It was an ongoing investigation."
"That you deliberately hid from me."
His expression hardens. "Because I knew you'd object."
"To what, exactly?" I challenge, taking another step closer. "To gathering evidence? To tracking hunter movements?"
"To direct engagement." He meets my gaze unflinchingly. "To anything that doesn't involve your precious pacifist approach."
And there it is. The real issue. Not efficiency or expertise, but our fundamental philosophical divide.
"My 'precious pacifist approach' is a strategy," I say, each word precise and controlled. "Understanding before acting. Gathering comprehensive intelligence before risking exposure."
"And my approach gets concrete results while you're making friends with the enemy."
"They're not all enemies!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "That's what you refuse to understand. Some of these humans are just scared. Manipulated. They don't understand what they're hunting."
Dylan's laugh is harsh, humorless. "Ignorance doesn't make silver bullets less deadly. It doesn't bring back the shifters they've already killed."
"And treating every human as a threat doesn't create lasting safety," I counter. "It just perpetuates the cycle of fear and violence."
"Easy philosophy from someone who's never lost anyone to human hunters." The words land like a physical blow.
"No, I just lost my entire childhood to a pack driven mad by paranoia and fear," I snap back. "I watched what happens when ideology becomes obsession.”
"Cheslem was corrupted by dark magic," Dylan dismisses. "That's not comparable."
"The corruption accelerated what was already there! The isolation, the paranoia, the us-versus-them mentality that you're so eager to embrace."
His eyes narrow dangerously. "You think I'm like Matthias?"
"I never said that—"
"You're being irrational," he says, voice cold. "But I shouldn't be surprised. You came from a pack of fucking crazy people. It makes sense you'd be—"
I lurch back toward the wall before he can finish the sentence. The sound of my elbow hitting the plaster cracks through the cottage like a gunshot, shocking us both into silence.
For a moment, neither of us moves or speaks. Then something shifts in his expression—not anger, but something closer to regret.
Before he can say anything, I turn and walk out the front door, needing distance before I do something else I'll regret. The evening air hits cool against my flushed skin as I sink onto the porch steps, trembling with adrenaline and fury.
How dare he. How dare he reduce my past, my trauma, my hard-won insights to irrational byproducts of my abuse, my terror. As if surviving Cheslem made me less credible rather than more experienced with the consequences of unchecked paranoia.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold as anger gives way to exhaustion. The mission, the lottery match, the constant pretense—it's all becoming too much. I'm tired of fighting on multiple fronts, of maintaining appearances while everything inside me feels increasingly fragmented.
The door opens behind me. I don't turn, don't acknowledge Dylan's presence as he steps onto the porch. The boards creak slightly beneath his weight. He doesn't speak immediately, and I refuse to break the silence first.
Something soft settles around my shoulders—a blanket, warm and surprisingly thoughtful. I resist the urge to shrug it off out of pure stubbornness.
"I shouldn't have said that." His voice is low, gruff with what might be genuine regret. "It was out of line."
I say nothing, eyes fixed on the darkening street ahead. His apology—if that's what it was—doesn't erase the words or the sentiment behind them.
"Sera." My name sounds different when he says it. NotDaley, the antagonist he's been sparring with for months. Sera. A person with a past and pain of her own.
