Page 76 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Just a little further," Dylan murmurs, his arm steady around my waist. He's been saying this for hours, a gentle lie we both pretend to believe.
The afternoon sun filters through pine branches, creating dappled patterns across the forest floor. We've been traveling since dawn, covering perhaps seven miles in slow, painful progress. Silvercreek lies another five miles southwest—so close, yet impossibly far in my condition.
"Wait," I whisper, the vertigo suddenly overwhelming. The trees spin in a sickening carousel, and I stumble against Dylan's side.
He catches me effortlessly, concern etching deep lines around his eyes. "Rest. Five minutes."
I don't argue, sinking to the ground with his help. He crouches beside me, alert and watchful, while I press my forehead against my knees, willing the world to stop spinning.
"They're getting closer," he says after a moment, head tilted in that predatory way that means he's listening beyond human range.
"How many?"
"Two groups. Maybe three hunters each." His jaw tightens. "They're coordinating by radio. Closing a perimeter."
I swallow hard, fear a cold stone in my stomach. "We won't make it to Silvercreek before dark."
Dylan doesn't contradict me. The truth hangs between us, undeniable as the setting sun. His eyes scan the surrounding forest, tactical assessment overriding emotion.
"There's a ridge about half a mile west," he says finally. "Should have caves, overhangs. We can take a defensible position for the night."
"Lead the way." I push myself upright, refusing to acknowledge the black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.
His hand finds mine, squeezing gently. The simple contact grounds me, a tether to reality when my body threatens to float away on waves of pain.
We move west, Dylan adjusting his stride to match my faltering pace. The terrain grows rockier, steeper. Each step jars my injured head, but I bite back complaints. Dylan's already carrying both our burdens—he doesn't need the weight of my pain, too.
The ridge appears through the trees—a jagged spine of dark stone erupting from the forest floor. At its base, shadows deepen into potential shelter.
"There," Dylan points to a narrow opening partially concealed by fallen branches.
We approach cautiously, Dylan's nostrils flaring as he scents for other occupants. Finding none, he helps me inside what proves to be a shallow cave—perhaps fifteen feet deep, eight feet wide, ceiling low enough that he must duck.
"It's perfect," I murmur, sinking gratefully onto the cool stone floor.
Dylan arranges branches across the entrance, creating a screen of natural camouflage. "Not perfect, but defensible. One way in, one way out."
I watch him work, movements efficient despite the bullet graze on his side. He's beautiful in this primal element—all coiled strength and focused intent. For the first time in hours, I allow myself to acknowledge how close I came to losing him.
"Let me check your wound," I say when he finishes securing our temporary sanctuary.
He hesitates, then kneels beside me. "Yours first."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." His voice roughens. "Your pupils are different sizes. The silver—"
"Isn't fatal," I interrupt. "To me, at least."
His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
I take a deep breath, decision made. If we might die tomorrow, there should be truth between us tonight.
"Cheslem used silver on us. It was a kind of… punishment, I guess. Experimented with doses, delivery methods." The words come mechanical, clinical. Distance as defense. "They found those of us who survived developed a certain... tolerance."
Dylan goes very still, expression shifting from confusion to dawning horror. "Sera..."
"It still hurts," I continue, unable to stop now that I've started. "Burns like acid in my veins. But it won't kill me. Not the amount Diane injected."
