Page 37 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Nothing I can't live with." The lie comes automatically, protection offered without thought. She doesn't need to carry the images I now will. "What did you find?"
She pushes a folder toward me, her movements careful, deliberate. "Clinic records. Supply orders. They're preparing for something specific—tranquilizers, silver compounds, restraints. All coded under something called 'Operation Protectorate'."
The name connects immediately to what I witnessed. Sera and I didn’t get a chance to talk this morning, so I catch her up now: "They're capturing regular wolves, thinking they're shifters. I saw it last night. At an abandoned warehouse on County Line Road."
Her sharp intake of breath is the only indication of her distress. "Were they...?"
"I know for a fact there were no shifters among them." I sit heavily across from her, the weight of the day pressing down like physical mass. "Buttheydon’t know that. They think they can force them to shift back to human form. They're planning to torture them until they do."
"That's what the clinic supplies are for," Sera murmurs, shuffling through her papers. "Silver nitrate, restraints, painkillers... they're setting up for extended 'interrogation’."
We piece together our findings like a macabre puzzle—her clinic intelligence, my warehouse observations, fragments from Guardian meetings. The picture that emerges is more organized and extensive than either of us initially suspected.
At one in the morning, we make the scheduled secure call to Nic, reporting everything through encrypted channels. His response is measured, strategic. It brings us no comfort.
"Continue surveillance," he instructs after absorbing our report. "We need to understand the full scope before intervening. If we move too soon, we risk pushing their operations underground where we can't track them."
"There are wolves in cages right now," I argue, frustration bleeding through my usual discipline.
"And there will be shifters in cages if we don't dismantle this completely," Nic counters. "Two more days, Dylan. Then we reassess."
The call ends, leaving us in silence broken only by the soft ticking of the kitchen clock. Sera watches me with an expression I can't quite read—not quite concern, not quite calculation.
"You don't agree with him," she states rather than asks.
"Do you?" I counter, surprising myself with the question. When did her opinion begin to matter to me?
She considers this, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear in a gesture I've come to recognize as thoughtful rather than nervous. "I think... sometimes waiting causes more harm than acting. But I also think Nic sees the bigger picture."
"And if those wolves die while we wait?"
"Then we carry that," she says simply. "Along with everything else."
The honesty in her response—the absence of platitudes or easy comfort—hits harder than reassurance would have. She understands the weight of these choices, the cost of necessary evil.
For the first time since our reluctant partnership began, I find myself genuinely grateful for her presence. Not just her skills or her cover value, but her—Sera herself, with her complicated beliefs and unexpected courage.
"We should get some sleep," I say finally. "Tomorrow will be long."
She nods, gathering her papers with tired movements. As she passes my chair, her hand briefly touches my shoulder—a gesture so unexpected I almost flinch. Then she's gone, disappearing into her room while I remain at the table.
Chapter 13 - Sera
I wake to the sound of something breaking.
Glass, maybe. Or ceramic. A sharp sound that fractures the night's stillness, followed by a muffled curse. My body reacts before my mind fully surfaces—heart accelerating, muscles tensing beneath the thin blanket. Two weeks in this cottage has made me familiar with its nocturnal soundtrack: the quiet settling of timber as temperature drops, the occasional skittering of mice in the attic space, the refrigerator's steady hum. This sound belongs to none of these categories.
The digital clock on my nightstand reads 3:17 AM. I slide from bed, bare feet silent against the wooden floor. No weapon—I've never been comfortable with them—but awareness sharpened by years of survival instinct.
In the narrow hallway, slivers of pale light spill from the living room. I move toward it, pulse thrumming in my ears, and pause at the threshold.
Dylan stands with his back to me, silhouetted against the window. His shoulders rise and fall with deliberate, measured breaths. At his feet lies the broken remains of a mug, dark liquid pooling across the floorboards.
"Sorry," he says without turning. His voice sounds raw, scraped hollow. "Didn't mean to wake you."
I step carefully around the ceramic shards. "Are you hurt?"
A humorless laugh escapes him. "No."
