Page 25 of Fat Arranged Mate
Mike leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Strange things happening in these mountains. Animals acting unnatural. Predators getting bold."
"What kind of predators?" I ask, careful to maintain casual curiosity. “Like, bears?”
"Wolves, officially." He emphasizes the word in a way that suggests he means something else entirely. "But between us, some of these attacks don't match normal wolf behavior.”
Another man joins our conversation—younger, with a military-style haircut and cold eyes. The Guardian pin on his jacket gleams under the bar lights. "You interested in joining the protection efforts? We're always looking for new blood."
"Maybe," I say, noncommittal but interested. "What exactly does that involve?"
"Patrols. Tracking unusual activity. Watching out for… strange people passing through town. Keeping the community safe." His assessment of me is careful, evaluating. "We're having a special meeting tomorrow night. Planning session for our next major operation. You should come."
"I'd like that," I respond, letting a hint of eagerness show through. "Where and when?"
As he gives me details, another hunter at the bar launches into a story about a recent "wolf" they tracked through Miller's Creek. My enhanced hearing catches every gruesome detail—the pursuit, the silver-loaded weapons, the creature's desperate attempt to escape.
"—ran like nothing I've ever seen. Too smart for a normal wolf. But the silver slowed it down. Got a piece of its shoulder before it disappeared into the ravine."
Silver. Shoulder wound. The timing matches the attack on the passing shifter that triggered our mission.
These aren't just paranoid humans; they're experienced killers who know exactly what they're hunting.
"—blood trail for nearly a mile before losing it," the hunter continues proudly. "Dave thinks it might have survived, but with that much silver in its system? Doubt it made it far."
The casual cruelty hits me like a physical blow, triggering memories I've spent years trying to suppress.
Blood on snow. My mother's scream. My father pushing eighteen-year-old me behind him as humans with rifles emerge from the trees surrounding our remote cabin.
"Take your brother and run," he ordered, eyes already shifting to wolf gold. "Don't look back."
I obeyed, grabbing Ethan and fleeing into the forest. The gunshots followed seconds later. Two quick reports, then silence. Hours later, Alpha Blackwood—Nic’s father—found us and brought us back to Silvercreek. But it was too late for our parents.
"You okay, man?" Mike's voice pulls me back to the present. "Looked like you went somewhere else for a minute."
I force a smile, gripping my beer bottle to hide the slight tremor in my hand. "Just tired. Long day."
The conversation shifts to the upcoming hunting season, but I'm only half-listening now, cataloguing faces, names, details for my report. When I finally leave two hours later, I have confirmation of their next meeting location and a clearer picture of the threat we're facing.
The cottage is dark except for a single lamp in the living room when I return. I expected Sera to be asleep, but instead find her curled in the armchair, a book open but unread in her lap. She looks up when I enter, something odd flashing across her features before being carefully masked.
"You're back." Her tone is neutral, giving nothing away.
"Mission accomplished." I shrug off my jacket, wincing slightly as the movement aggravates raw knuckles—a souvenir from "accidentally" scraping my hand on rough concrete to sell my harmless image after noticing too-intent scrutiny from one of the Guardians.
Her eyes narrow, immediately spotting the injury. "What happened?"
"Nothing. Minor scrape." I move toward my room, not in the mood for another argument about necessary risks.
"Let me see." She's already standing, healer's instincts overriding personal feelings.
"It's fine, Sera."
"Silver?" The question comes sharp with genuine concern.
"No. Just concrete." I relent, extending my hand more to ease her worry than from any need for treatment. "Completely ordinary injury."
She examines it critically, professional detachment at odds with the lingering tension between us. "Kitchen. Better light."
I follow without argument, too tired to resist. At the sink, she cleans the wound with clinical efficiency, fingers cool against my skin.
