Page 19 of Fat Arranged Mate
Rick launches into detailed advice about rifles and gear, providing perfect cover as I catalogue every item in the store. Most are standard hunting equipment, but the "predator control" section contains items specifically designed for wolves. Silver-infused products. Specialized traps. A manualtitled "Wilderness Safety: Protecting Your Community from Predators".
I pick it up casually, flipping through pages that make my blood run cold. While it never explicitly mentions shifters, the subtext is clear in phrases like "abnormal predator behavior" and "unnatural intelligence." Careful language to avoid sounding unhinged while spreading anti-shifter sentiment.
"That's popular lately," Rick comments, watching me examine the book. "Local wildlife's been acting strange. Folks getting nervous."
"Strange how?" Sera asks, the perfect picture of a concerned newcomer.
Rick's expression darkens. "Attacks. Sightings close to town. Animals that don't act right—too bold, too smart. Something ain't natural about it."
I feel Sera's fingers tighten on my arm, a warning pressure. My wolf bristles at the implied threat, but I keep my expression neutral, interested but not too interested.
"Sounds scary," I comment. "Is it safe to hike around here?"
"Stick to marked trails. Travel in groups." Rick lowers his voice slightly. "And between us, might want to pick up something more substantial than bear spray. Silver works best."
The casual recommendation of silver—a poison specific to werewolves—confirms my suspicions.
This isn't random paranoia. These humans know what they're hunting.
We spend another fifteen minutes browsing, maintaining our cover while gathering intelligence. By the time we leave with a local map and a beginner's guide to hunting (both useful forcompletely different reasons than Rick believes), I've identified three men who entered the store specifically to speak with Rick in hushed tones.
"The Guardians, I'm guessing," I murmur to Sera as we walk toward the local diner for lunch. "Did you notice the small pin on Rick's vest? Black shield with a silver G?"
She nods slightly. "And the two men at the back counter had the same one. Different design than the League used."
"Local variant, maybe. Or a splinter group." I guide her across the street, maintaining our couple facade with a hand at the small of her back. The contact shouldn't feel as natural as it does. "They're organized, whatever they are."
The diner is busy with the lunch crowd—mostly locals, judging by the familiar greetings exchanged. We take a corner booth with good sightlines to the door and counter. A middle-aged waitress with "Dottie" on her nametag brings menus with a friendly smile.
"New faces! We don't get many of those this time of year."
Sera launches into our cover story with practiced ease, while I scan the room, cataloging faces, noting who sits with whom, and who commands respect. Small town hierarchies are usually visible to those who know how to look.
Our food arrives quickly—simple burgers and fries that remind me how long it's been since breakfast. As we eat, I continue my observations while maintaining enough conversation to appear normal. Sera plays her role perfectly, asking Dottie about local events, best places to shop, community activities. Information gathering disguised as friendly interest.
It's when Sera excuses herself to the restroom that I hear it—two men in the booth behind me, voices lowered but not enough for human privacy.
"—new couple. She's a big girl, isn't she? Surprised a guy like him would go for that."
The comment hits like a physical blow, unexpected and infuriating. My hand tightens around my water glass, wolf stirring beneath my skin.
"Maybe she's loaded," the second voice chuckles. "Or he's got a fetish."
I count breaths, forcing my wolf down. These humans aren't worth exposing our cover. Their opinions of Sera mean nothing. The protective rage surging through me is irrational, unwanted, inappropriate.
And yet.
When Sera returns, I have to consciously unclench my jaw, arrange my features into something approximating normal. She notices anyway, head tilting slightly in silent question.
"Everything okay?" she asks quietly.
"Fine." I reach for her hand across the table, the gesture serving dual purposes—maintaining our cover and grounding myself against the lingering anger, though I’d never admit it. "Just ready to continue exploring."
Her eyebrows rise slightly at the contact, but she doesn't pull away. "Where to next?"
"Town hall. Community center. Places where people gather." Places where propaganda might spread. Where hunters might organize.
The rest of the afternoon passes in careful observation. We walk hand in hand through Pinecrest, the picture of newlyweds exploring their new home. By sunset, I've mapped the town's layout, identified key locations, and spotted seven men wearing the Guardian pin.
