Page 28 of Fat Arranged Mate
As dusk falls, lanterns illuminate the park and the band begins playing. Couples drift to the wooden platform, which serves as a dance floor. We linger at the edges, watching, gathering intelligence on who dances with whom, the social hierarchies revealed through interaction.
Sheriff Donovan approaches, Martha Dawson on his arm. "You two should join in," he suggests, though it sounds more like an instruction. "Best way to feel part of the community."
We have no choice. Dylan leads me to the dance floor as the band shifts to a slower song. His hand settles at my waist, the other clasping mine with unexpected gentleness.
"They're watching us," he whispers, drawing me closer than strictly necessary. "Donovan, the Dawsons, and the man by the coolers—that's Jenkins, head of their 'wildlife management' committee."
I nod slightly, letting my head rest against his shoulder as if in affectionate fatigue rather than strategic conversation. "The clinic staff talk about him. Former military. Came back with strong opinions about 'territorial defense'."
Dylan's thumb traces small circles against my lower back, a gesture that seems unconscious. "We need to get into that meeting tomorrow night. Whatever they're planning, it's big."
"Be careful," I murmur, the words escaping before I can analyze them. "These aren't casual hunters. They're organized. Methodical."
His arm tightens around me fractionally. "Worried about me, Daley?"
"About our mission," I correct, though the lie tastes strange on my tongue.
We turn slowly to the music, and I become aware of other details—the subtle cedar notes in his scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my palm, the way his breath stirs the hair near my temple. Our bodies move together with the same surprising harmony we found in the games, as if some primal part of us recognizes something in the other despite our conscious resistance.
The song shifts, but we continue dancing, maintaining our cover while gathering intelligence. Mayor Collins dances nearby with his wife, offering bits of town gossip. Rick Dawson moves between groups, clearly functioning as some sort of social connector. Sheriff Donovan remains near the edge, observing more than participating.
"Notice how none of them mention actual attacks?" I whisper during a turn. "Just vague warnings about 'predator activity' and 'wilderness safety'. No specific incidents. No named victims."
Dylan's brow furrows slightly. "The fear seems manufactured."
"Exactly. At the clinic, there are no records of actual wolf attacks. Just reports of 'increased sightings' and 'concerning behavior'."
Our eyes meet in mutual understanding, and something shifts between us—a momentary alignment of perspective that feels dangerously significant. His gaze drops briefly to my lips, an unconscious gesture he immediately masks, but not before I notice. Not before my pulse quickens in response.
I look away first, disturbed by my reaction. "We should circulate more."
The remainder of the evening passes in careful observation. We maintain our newlywed persona—holding hands, sharing food, laughing at local jokes. By the time we begin the walk home, darkness has fully settled over Pinecrest, and I'm exhausted from the constant performance.
Yet we don't drop the act immediately. Other partygoers walk the same streets. Windows remain lit in houses we pass. Dylan's arm stays around my shoulders, my arm around his waist, our bodies close against the cool night air.
"They're grooming the entire town," I say quietly, my voice not carrying beyond us. "Creating an atmosphere of threat without actual incidents."
Dylan nods, his profile sharp against the streetlights. "Classic manipulation technique. Make people fear something enough, they'll accept increasingly extreme 'protective' measures."
"Even the children had Guardian pins on their jackets," I add, remembering the youth fishing contest where small silver G's gleamed on tiny lapels. "They're raising a generation to fear and hate shifters without ever having encountered one."
His jaw tightens. "Tomorrow's meeting will tell us more about their immediate plans."
We reach the cottage, but neighbors are still active—porch lights on, windows open to the spring evening. Without breaking stride, Dylan guides me up our steps, maintaining the charade until we're safely inside with the door locked behind us.
Only then do we separate, the sudden distance between us feeling strangely hollow after hours of constant contact.
"Good work today," he says formally, running a hand through his hair in a rare gesture of fatigue. "Your infiltration is… effective. I wouldn’t know you haven’t done this before."
The praise sounds clinical, at odds with the man who held me close on the dance floor.
"You weren’t bad either," I reply, stepping away to organize our gift basket, needing physical activity to dispel the lingering awareness of his touch. "The Dawsons and Sheriff seem to accept you."
Maybe you’re just like them,I don’t say.Maybe they see their own paranoia and wrath in you.
"We should record our observations while they're fresh," Dylan says, already moving toward his laptop. The mission-focused protector reasserting control over whatever momentary connection we shared.
I nod, retreating to my room with the excuse of changing clothes. In private, I press my hands to my flushed cheeks, trying to steady my breathing.
