Page 30 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Shifters," Bryce supplies, voice slightly slurred. "Fucking abominations. Look like people until they don't."
"That's… there are shifters around these parts?" I manage, forcing disbelief I don't feel into my voice.
"Showed up about fifteen years ago," Mike explains, lowering his voice despite the noisy room. "A whole horde of the fuckers, up north on the river. The law lets them have their way if they keep to themselves. But some of us didn't sign up for that."
"They killed Frank's cousin back in 2019," Doug adds. "Tore him apart while he was camping. Officials called it a regular wolf attack."
The lie lands like a stone. No shifter killed this man's brother. We police our own specifically to prevent such incidents—we would have known, and the perpetrator would have been dealt with swiftly and severely. But these humans have built an entire mythology around false victimhood.
"How do you know it wasn't just a normal wolf?" I ask, the question careful, curious.
"Regular wolves don't drag a man a mile from his campsite," Taylor responds. "Regular wolves don't dismantle a human body. You didn’t see it—trust me. I trust my own damn eyes.”
Before I can formulate a response, Sheriff Donovan calls for attention from a makeshift podium at the front. The room quiets immediately revealing the hierarchy more clearly than any organizational chart could.
"Welcome, brothers and sisters," Donovan begins, his cadence reminiscent of the pulpit rather than law enforcement. "Especially our newcomers. Always good to see fresh faces committed to community safety."
His gaze lingers briefly on me, and I raise my beer in acknowledgment. Playing my part.
"As you know, we've tracked increased activity in Sectors Three and Seven." He gestures to a large map pinned behindhim, marked with red X's and shaded zones. "The spring migration pattern is shifting, bringing more of them through our territory."
My pulse quickens. He's describing the seasonal movement of the Northern Ridge pack—allies of Silvercreek who travel through these mountains every spring. If they're walking into a trap...
"Our last major operation yielded one confirmed kill," Donovan continues, triggering a murmur of approval. "Though unfortunately, we lost track of a second target that was wounded."
The injured shifter who triggered our mission. The confirmation makes my hand tighten around my beer bottle.
"Tonight's meeting is to finalize Phase Two," Donovan says. "The establishment of safe zones."
He unveils a second map—this one showing concentric circles around Pinecrest, with red hatching covering nearly half the surrounding forest.
"Areas in red are what we're calling 'human-only zones,'" he announces, tapping the map with thick fingers. "We're gonna clear 'em out. Every last one of 'em."
Jenkins—a balding man with a beer gut straining his flannel shirt—stands up, swaying slightly. "Got a whole bunch of those silver bullets from my cousin in Idaho. Works like a charm. Hit 'em once and they go down screaming."
Several men whoop and raise their beers. One shouts, "Just like we did to that big one last fall!"
"Damn straight," Jenkins continues, face flushed with pride and alcohol. "They bleed out real nice when you get 'emwith silver. Can't heal up, and if they don’t bleed out, the poison kills them soon enough."
My stomach turns. My brother’s face flashes behind my eyes over and over, terrified, lip trembling.
"These safe zones will create a buffer around our town," Donovan continues, stabbing at the map with his finger. "Keep our families safe from those freaks. Government says we gotta 'coexist'—bullshit. My granddaddy never had to share his land with no animal-people, and neither should we."
The crowd rumbles agreement, voices overlapping with crude suggestions and complaints about laws passed in recent years that have offered shifters more autonomy, more freedoms to move and live as we please. Laws that, had they been respected, would have saved Ethan’s life.
The crowd murmurs approval, and he signals to someone at the back of the room. "For our newcomers, a demonstration of what we're dealing with."
A projector flickers to life, casting images on the wall that freeze the blood in my veins. Photographs of dead wolves—some clearly shifted, caught in the vulnerable half-form between human and wolf. Bodies displayed like hunting trophies, men kneeling beside them with triumphant grins.
I maintain my expression through sheer force of will, though my wolf claws at my insides, howling for retribution. These aren't just random shifters—I recognize markings specific to regional packs. The white paw of the Mountain Ridge alpha. The silver-tipped ear of a Southern Coalition scout.
Then an image appears that nearly breaks my control—a russet-colored wolf with distinctive black markings across its muzzle. Ellis. A young shifter from the Clearwater pack who went missing fourteen months ago. We searched for weeks,finding no trace. The official assumption was rogue hunters or an accident.
But here he is, sprawled lifelessly across forest loam, three men posing behind him with rifles raised in victory.
"This one gave us quite the chase last year," Donovan narrates with disturbing pride. "Tracked it for three days before Jenkins here got a clear shot. First field test of the silver compound. Worked better than expected."
The casual cruelty, the complete absence of recognition that they murdered a twenty-three-year-old with a family, with dreams, with a place in this world—it leaves me hollow with rage.
