Page 56 of Fat Arranged Mate
I dig fingernails into my palms, fighting to maintain a neutral expression as he describes shifter physiology with grotesque inaccuracy—claiming we experience "bloodlust" during shifts, lose all human consciousness, deliberately target children due to their "vulnerability."
When he describes shifters' supposedly heightened sense of smell as "similar to sharks detecting blood in water—triggering instant predatory response", something in me snaps.
My hand rises before I can reconsider.
"Yes?" Donovan pauses, clearly surprised by the interruption. "The young lady in the back—ah, yeah, Sera Winters?"
"I'm wondering about your source for that information," I say, careful to keep my tone curious rather than challenging. "My undergraduate biology classes taught that wolf olfactory responses are actually quite complex—more about territory and pack recognition than hunting triggers. Has new research changed that understanding?"
I’m lying out of my ass. I never went to college. But he’s wrong, and lying, and he knows it.
Silence falls as all eyes turn toward me. Donovan's expression tightens almost imperceptibly before relaxing into condescension.
"I appreciate your academic interest," he says, emphasis suggesting the opposite, "but we're dealing with practical experience here, not classroom theories. I've tracked these creatures for fifteen years. I know their behaviors."
He moves to the next slide, but I've created a ripple in his carefully constructed narrative. I feel Diane's eyes boring into me from across the room, assessing this departure from my usual agreeable demeanor.
I remain silent for the next several slides, watching townsfolk nod at each frightening claim, each distorted fact. When Donovan displays a map of "unsafe zones" encompassing nearly all the surrounding wilderness, I find my hand rising again.
"Regarding the marked areas," I begin, "wouldn't avoiding all those trails essentially mean abandoning outdoorrecreation entirely? I'm just wondering if there's a more targeted approach based on actual sighting data rather than—"
"Mrs. Winters," Donovan interrupts, using my cover name with subtle emphasis, "these recommendations are based on documented incidents. Would you prefer we wait until someone's child is attacked before taking precautions?"
The false dichotomy silences me more effectively than direct confrontation could have. Several audience members turn to give me disapproving looks, my reasonable questions now reframed as callous disregard for children's safety.
I retreat into silence for the remainder of the presentation, watching as fear calcifies into certainty around me. By the conclusion, Donovan has effectively declared the entire surrounding forest a war zone and positioned the Guardians as the only defense between civilization and monstrous predators.
As attendees filter toward the refreshment table, Donovan makes his way directly to me, purpose evident in his stride.
"Mrs. Winters," he greets, extending his hand. "I’m surprised not to see Dylan here. He talks about you often.”
I shake his hand, noting the calculated pressure of his grip. "All good things, I hope."
"Of course." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "He says you have a background in healthcare. Impressive."
"Just nursing training," I downplay, sensing danger in this attention.
"Still, gives you quite a unique perspective." He leans against the wall beside me, blocking my path to the exit. "I couldn't help noticing your questions during the presentation. You seem... knowledgeable about wildlife."
"Just an interest," I shrug. "I took some electives in college. Nothing serious."
"Hmm." His gaze remains fixed on my face, assessing, probing. "Where did you say you moved from again?"
"Denver area," I supply, sticking to our cover story. "We needed a change of pace."
"Must be quite an adjustment, big city to small town." He watches my reaction too intently. "Finding everything you need here?"
"Everyone's been very welcoming."
"Glad to hear it." He straightens, dropping his voice slightly. "You know, Mrs. Winters, in small communities like Pinecrest, we notice things. Pay attention to details. It's how we've survived out here."
The threat beneath his folksy observation isn't subtle. My pulse quickens, but I maintain my pleasant expression.
"That sense of community is exactly why we chose Pinecrest," I respond, matching his tone.
He nods, seemingly satisfied for the moment. "Well, I should let you get back to work. Looking forward to seeing more of you and your husband. Maybe I'll stop by sometime, welcome you properly to the neighborhood."
***
