Page 77 of Fat Arranged Mate
His hand reaches for mine, fingers interlacing with careful gentleness that threatens to undo me. "What else did they do to you?"
The question unlocks something I've kept carefully sealed since my rescue. Words spill out like blood from a reopened wound.
"They broke us systematically. Those who survived became soldiers. Those who resisted became examples." My voice catches. "I was almost an example."
Dylan's grip tightens, his other hand coming up to cup my cheek. The tenderness in his touch contrasts sharply with the rage building behind his eyes.
"You hated me," he says softly. "When you first arrived.”
I nod, throat tight. “You reminded me of them,” I croak.
Dylan’s face crumples. He seems to try to speak, but fails.
Perhaps to spare him, I push on. "It's never just the enemy who suffers, Dylan. Violence changes the one inflicting it, too. I watched good wolves become monsters by degrees, telling themselves it was necessary. Justified." I meet his gaze directly. "I was afraid of seeing the same thing happen to you."
The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. Dylan's expression shifts through complex emotions—defense, recognition, shame, understanding.
"When the League hurt my brother," he says finally, voice dropping to a whisper, "I was there. He died in my arms. I don’t think there’ll be a single day in the rest of my life when a part of me isn’t still holding him in my arms as he dies.”
The confession clearly costs him. I stay silent, giving him space to continue.
"I promised myself no one else would die while I stood by helplessly. I thought—if I was strong enough, vigilant enough, ruthless enough—I could protect what remained of my family. My pack."
"But the cost was you," I say gently. "Pieces of yourself sacrificed for security that never comes."
He looks away, jaw tight. "What's the alternative? Just let them hunt us? Watch more packmates die?"
"The alternative is balance," I say, wincing as I shift position. "Defense without vengeance. Protection without hatred. It's harder than either extreme, but it's the only path that doesn't end in becoming what we're fighting against."
Silence falls between us, broken only by the distant call of an owl. Outside, night creeps across the forest. Hunter patrols move through darkness, searching for us.
"I'm terrified," Dylan admits suddenly, the words barely audible. "Not of dying. Of losing you. Of failing again."
The vulnerability in his confession breaks something inside me. Without thinking, I reach for him, pulling him toward me until his head rests against my shoulder. He comes willingly, strong arms encircling me with careful restraint.
"You haven't failed," I whisper into his hair. "You found me. You're here."
"They hurt you," he says, voice muffled against my collarbone. "Because of me, because I wasn't—"
"No." I pull back, forcing him to meet my eyes. "You don't get to claim responsibility for other people's cruelty. That's not how this works."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "You're lecturing me while bleeding from a head wound."
"Someone has to," I counter, my own smile forming despite everything. "You're particularly stubborn."
His expression sobers, eyes tracking over my injuries. "Does it still hurt? The silver?"
"Yes," I admit, seeing no point in lying. "But it'll fade by morning."
His hand finds mine again, thumb tracing circles on my palm. "You wanted to keep me safe. From myself.”
"Yes."
"And I treated you like an enemy."
"We were both afraid," I say, absolving him. "Fear makes strangers of potential allies."
Dylan shifts, pulling me gently against his chest. I go willingly, finding unexpected comfort in his warmth, his steady heartbeat beneath my ear. We fit together like this, I realize—my softness against his hardness, complementary rather than opposing.
