Page 53 of Fat Arranged Mate
At midnight, I give up on sleep entirely. The cottage feels empty without Dylan's presence, his surveillance operation now in its fifth hour. I wander to the kitchen for tea, then find myself drawn to the living room where his maps remain spread across the table.
In the soft lamplight, I study his work with new appreciation. Each notation is precise, methodical—Guardian movements tracked in red, suspicious locations marked in blue, potential escape routes highlighted in green. The level of detail reveals a mind far more strategic than I've given him credit for, seeing patterns and connections I might have missed.
He's not just a blunt instrument of violence, I realize. There's calculation behind his actions, careful analysis informing his decisions. I've been dismissing him as thoughtless when he's anything but.
The front door opens quietly, and Dylan enters, rain-dampened and exhausted. He pauses when he sees me at his maps, expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Find anything useful?" I ask, gesturing to the careful notations.
"Maybe." He removes his jacket, hanging it by the door. "They're accelerating their timeline. Something's happening the night before the full moon, not during it as we initially thought."
"That's only three days away."
He nods, moving to the table. "They mentioned coordinates that match this location." He reaches past me to mark a spot on the map, his arm brushing mine in the process.
The contact, however brief, sends electricity skittering across my skin. I inhale sharply, catching the scent of rain and pine and something distinctly him. Our eyes meet in the sudden stillness, neither of us moving away.
"Sera," he begins, voice rough with something unnamed.
"Don't." I shake my head, unable to handle whatever might follow. "We can't."
"Can't what?" His eyes hold mine, challenging.
"Complicate things further," I whisper. "We have a mission. We have fundamental differences that one mistake doesn't erase."
"Is that what you think last night was?" he asks quietly.
I look away, unable to maintain contact with the intensity of his gaze. "I don't know what it was."
Neither of us says the obvious:one day soon, this mission will be over, and we’ll be back to being fated. We’ll be mated. We’ll be together until we die—and we can’t hope to escape it in time.
He says nothing for a long moment. Then, with deliberate care, he steps back, creating space between us. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow will be busy."
I nod, grateful and oddly disappointed by his retreat. As I turn to leave, his voice stops me at the threshold.
"For what it's worth," he says, "I don't regret it."
The simple statement follows me back to my empty bed, where I lie awake tracing patterns on the ceiling, imagining for the first time what it might mean to build something with Dylan beyond this mission. Beyond our differences. Beyond the careful distance we maintain.
The possibility terrifies me. And yet, like a moon-pulled tide, I find myself drawn inexorably toward it, toward him, despite every rational objection.
Chapter 18 - Dylan
The county fairgrounds exhibition hall smells of dust, cheap coffee, and gun oil. Men in flannel and work boots cluster around folding tables, voices competing in a rumble of self-importance. Twenty-three pickup trucks in the parking lot, most with rifle racks. Four towns represented, according to Mike's running commentary on the drive over.
"Bigger turnout than last time," he says, clapping my shoulder as we enter. "Word's spreadin’ about what we're doing in Pinecrest."
I nod, maintaining the eager recruit persona I've cultivated. Inside, I catalog faces, identifying unfamiliar players while tracking known Guardians. Sheriff Donovan stands near the makeshift podium, deep in conversation with a heavyset man wearing a "Liberty or Death" t-shirt stretched tight across his belly.
"That's Hank Briggs," Mike explains, following my gaze. "Runs the Guardian chapter over in Millerville. Used to be with some big anti-shifter outfit back east before moving here."
Something in my chest constricts. Millerville. Twenty miles northeast.
"What outfit?" I keep my voice casual, disinterested.
"League for Humanity, I think they called themselves." Mike shrugs. "Bunch of 'em got arrested after some raid went sideways, but Hank got out clean. Smart guy."
The League. Of course. The pieces slot together with sickening clarity.
