Page 45 of Fat Arranged Mate
This is a complication we can't afford. We're undercover agents with a mission critical to the safety of multiple packs. We're reluctant lottery matches with fundamentally opposing worldviews. We're temporary partners who will return to our separate lives once this assignment concludes.
Yet none of these rational arguments seems to matter to my rebellious body, which now hums with awareness at the memory of his words. I can't stop thinking about her. The deep rumble of his confession replays in my mind, sending shivers across my skin.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Sleep seems impossible now. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hyper-aware. I shift restlessly, sheet tangling around my legs, body temperature rising despite the cool night air flowing through the cracked window.
From the other room, I hear the soft click of Dylan's phone being set down, the creak of his bed as he settles. Is he lying awake, too? Thinking of me as I'm thinking of him? The possibility only intensifies the warmth spreading through me.
I press my thighs together, trying to alleviate the ache building there. This is madness. Complete, utter madness. I should be focusing on our mission, on the missing pack member, on the dangerous Guardian operations we're investigating.
Instead, all I can think about is Dylan's hands. His voice. His eyes watching me across rooms with an intensity I've been deliberately misinterpreting as mistrust rather than desire.
How long has this been building? Was it there from the beginning, disguised as antagonism? Or did it develop gradually, transforming from genuine dislike to something far more complicated?
I have no answers, only questions that circle endlessly as the night deepens around me. One thing is certain: tomorrow morning, I'll have to face him knowing what I now know. Pretending I haven't heard his confession. Maintaining the careful distance we've established.
Unless...
No. I cut off that dangerous line of thinking before it can fully form. Whatever this is—attraction, chemistry, simple proximity—it changes nothing about our fundamental differences.
Yet as I finally drift toward uneasy sleep, my body still humming with unfulfilled awareness, I can't help wondering what might happen if we stopped fighting this current between us, even for a moment.
Chapter 16 - Dylan
The storm hits just after midnight—a sudden, violent collision of pressure systems that sends rain lashing against the windows like thrown gravel. I'm still awake, sleep having become an elusive luxury since Sera's panic attack. Since the closet. Since everything started shifting beneath my feet. Sometimes, it feels like I’ll never sleep again.
The power goes first, the cottage plunging into absolute darkness mid-heartbeat. Backup protocols spring to mind automatically—security assessment, environmental evaluation, and threat prioritization. Old habits, never quite dormant.
I navigate to the kitchen by memory and touch, locating the emergency kit in the cabinet below the sink. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room in stark, blue-white brilliance before plunging it back into darkness. Thunder follows immediately, the sound vibrating through the floorboards.
The drawer yields matches, three pillar candles, and a battery-operated lantern that flickers weakly when I switch it on. Backup batteries should be here somewhere—
"Dylan?"
Sera's voice comes from the hallway, pitched just loud enough to carry over the storm's percussion. I turn, the lantern casting elongated shadows across the walls.
"Power's out," I say unnecessarily. "I'm getting light."
She steps into the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. Her blonde hair falls loose around her face, still bearing the impression of her pillow. Sleep-warm and slightly disoriented, she looks younger somehow, less guarded.
"Storm woke me," she says, moving closer to the meager light. "Sounds serious."
"Probably knocked down a line somewhere." I strike a match, touching it to the first candle. "Could be a while before it's restored."
The candle catches, flame stretching tall before settling into a steady glow. I light the others, arranging them on the kitchen table, conscious of Sera watching my movements with unusual intensity.
"Is the heat out too?" she asks, tightening the blanket around herself.
"Electric system, so yes." I check the thermostat anyway, confirming what we already know. "Temperature will drop pretty quickly without it."
As if in response, she shivers slightly, the motion rippling through the blanket's folds. The cottage isn't well-insulated—charming for summer visitors, less practical for extended winter habitation.
"We should consolidate in one room," I say, keeping my tone neutral, professional. "More efficient to maintain body heat."
Something flickers across her expression—hesitation, maybe, or something more complicated.
"Living room has the fireplace," she points out.
"It’s decorative—we can’t actually light it." I gather the candles. "Your room or mine, doesn't matter. Whichever has more blankets."
