Page 55 of Fat Arranged Mate
By the time I drop him off and reach the cottage, night has fallen completely. I sit in the dark truck for several minutes, forcing my breathing to slow, willing my shift to recede.
And then today's date finally registers—one year exactly since Ethan died. Since I failed him.
The universe's cruel joke, bringing me face to face with one of his killers on this of all days.
Inside, the cottage is quiet, save for the soft sound of breathing from the living room. Sera lies curled on the couch, a book fallen open beside her hand, hair spilling across the cushion in a golden wave. She must have tried to wait up for me.
The sight of her stops my spiraling thoughts, creates a momentary stillness in the storm of my rage. My wolf quiets, its protective instincts suddenly redirecting toward this woman who infuriates, challenges, and captivates me in equal measure.
I should wake her. Report what I've learned. The intelligence is time-sensitive, critical to multiple packs' safety.
Instead, I find myself watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the slight furrow between her brows, even in sleep. Vulnerable yet strong, contradictions embodied in the curve of her shoulder, the set of her jaw.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. A text from Connor:
Thinking of you today, Dyl. Ethan would be proud of you and what you’re doing. Call if you need anything.
I close the message without responding, throat tight with emotion I can't afford to acknowledge. Not now, not with Briggs so close and a coordinated attack imminent.
With careful movements, I drape the throw blanket from the chair over Sera's sleeping form. She shifts slightly, murmuring something indistinct, but doesn't wake. My fingers hover near her hair, tempted to brush a strand from her cheek, but I pull back before making contact.
This... softness... I feel toward her complicates everything. Clouds judgment I need crystal clear for what's coming.
I retreat to my room, closing the door silently behind me. Tomorrow, I'll report everything—the regional coordination, the accelerated timeline, Briggs's presence. Tomorrow, we'll strategize and communicate with Silvercreek, prepare for whatever comes.
Tonight, I sit on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, caught between past and present. Between the boy who lost everything and the man determined to prevent history from repeating itself. Between vengeance sworn and protection promised.
And somehow, impossibly, Sera stands at the center of this conflict—challenging my certainties, offering alternatives I've never considered, becoming important in ways I never anticipated.
I lie back on the bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling as minutes tick into hours. Sleep remains elusive, driven away by memories of Ethan's laugh, Briggs's face, and the inexplicable comfort I found in watching Sera breathe.
Chapter 19 - Sera
The clinic's conference room has been transformed for today's community health seminar. Rows of folding chairs face a projection screen, a table of refreshments lines the back wall, and informational pamphlets titled "Wilderness Safety: Protecting Your Family from Predators" are stacked at the entrance.
I arrange cookies on a tray, listening as Dr. Sanders tests the microphone. My morning shift ended an hour ago, but Diane "suggested" that all staff attend this educational event.
Translation: attendance is mandatory, especially for the new employee still proving her loyalty.
"Quite the turnout," Diane observes, surveying the room as townspeople file in. "Sheriff Donovan's presentations always draw a crowd."
I nod pleasantly, maintaining the agreeable facade I've perfected. Inside, dread coils like a cold serpent.
Dylan's report from last night's regional meeting left me uneasy—the hatred spreading beyond Pinecrest, the familiar rhetoric escalating toward action. He seemed shaken up, too, in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. I know something must have happened that he refused to tell me. The thought makes me inordinately scared.
The room fills quickly. I recognize faces from the women's meeting, from the clinic, from passing encounters in town. Ordinary people consuming fear like oxygen, strengthening their certainties with each morsel of misinformation.
I take a seat near the back, hopeful for anonymity. Dr. Sanders introduces Sheriff Donovan with effusive praise for his"commitment to community safety." As if anyone here doesn’t know acutely who he is. The sheriff approaches the podium to enthusiastic applause, his uniform crisp, his expression grave with manufactured concern.
"Folks, I appreciate you coming out today," he begins, voice pitched to convey both authority and neighborly warmth. "What we're discussing isn't pleasant, but it's necessary—the increased predator activity in our region and how to keep your families safe."
The lights dim as he advances to his first slide—a grainy image of wolf tracks beside a hiking trail.
"These were photographed just three miles from town limits," he says, pointing to the prints. "Notice the size—nearly twice that of normal wolves. These aren't natural animals, folks."
His presentation unfolds with methodical precision, building a case through distortion and selective facts. Normal wolf behaviors reframed as calculating aggression. Natural territorial markings interpreted as threats. Isolated incidents of wildlife encounters magnified into patterns of coordinated attacks.
He’d have these people believe we want them dead. It makes me feel sick.
