Page 39 of Fat Arranged Mate
"She saved you," Dylan says.
"And died for it." The words fall between us, heavy with finality. "They discovered her deception eventually. I watched them tear her apart while the Alpha recited the corruption incantation. They made me watch."
The silence that follows feels physical, a weight pressing against my skin. Dylan's breathing has changed—deeper, steadier, as if deliberately controlled.
"How did you survive after that?" he asks finally.
"By becoming invisible. By learning to anticipate what others wanted before they knew themselves. By being useful enough to keep but unremarkable enough to overlook." I shrug, the motion failing to convey the years of vigilance compressed into that simple gesture. "By becoming very, very good at appearing to agree with whatever the person in front of me wanted."
Dylan's gaze sharpens. "Like you're doing with the clinic staff."
"Yes."
"That's why you're better at this than I am," he says, realization cooling his tone. "Undercover work. It's not just training for you. It's how you stayed alive."
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest at his assessment. Not pride—I've never considered my chameleon tendencies a strength—but recognition. He sees me, suddenly, with unnerving clarity.
"What about you?" I ask, needing to redirect his focus. "What wakes you at night?"
He tenses, jaw working beneath skin. For a moment, I think I've overstepped, broken whatever fragile truce the hour has granted us. Then his shoulders drop fractionally.
"My brother," he says, the words emerging rough-edged. "Ethan."
The name hangs in the air between us, weighted with significance I can't fully grasp.
"You don’t talk about him much," I say carefully. “I didn’t used to know you have one.”
"Had." The single syllable contains oceans of grief. "He died last year."
I wait, sensing the immense effort behind each word he offers.Had.
"He was the best of us," Dylan continues, his focus somewhere beyond the rain-streaked window. "Smart. Kind. Never met a stranger he couldn't befriend. Used to bring home injured animals, convinced he could heal anything broken."
"I'm sorry," I say, the words inadequate but sincere.
"Don't be." His tone sharpens briefly before softening again. "You didn't know him."
"No," I agree. "But he sounds amazing.”
Something passes across his features—recognition, perhaps, of our shared understanding despite our differences. The rain intensifies, drumming against the roof with increased urgency.
I shiver involuntarily as the temperature drops, pulling my oversized sweater tighter around myself. Dylan notices—he notices everything—and after a moment's hesitation, shifts slightly on the couch. The gesture is so subtle I almost miss it: a fractional movement that creates space beside him, an unspoken invitation.
I shouldn't accept. We've maintained careful physical boundaries these past weeks, professional distance our only protection against the forced intimacy of our situation. And yet I find myself rising, crossing the short distance between armchair and couch, settling beside him with a handspan of space between our shoulders.
His body radiates heat—shifters always run warmer than humans, and Dylan more so than most. The warmth seeps through my sleeve, loosening muscles tense from cold and memory.
"They were wrong about you," he says after several minutes of silence.
"Who?"
"Cheslem. About you not being a real wolf." His profile remains fixed on the window, rain casting liquid shadows across his features. "We might not agree on much, but I know you’re better than them.”
Something constricts in my throat. "You don't have to say that."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
The simplicity of his statement, delivered without emphasis or expectation, undoes me more thoroughly than eloquence could. My shoulder touches his, the contact both deliberate and plausibly deniable.
