Page 26 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Didn't punch someone, did you?" she asks, not looking up.
"Tempting, but no. Had to look harmless after drawing too much attention. Clumsy tech guy who scraped his hand up is less threatening than someone who knows how to throw a punch."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Makes sense.”
"Don't sound so surprised."
Our eyes meet briefly before she returns her attention to my hand. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, the space between us charged with something I refuse to name. She's close enough that I can detect the subtle changes in her scent—the honeysuckle stronger when she's focused, the antiseptic undertone from her day at the clinic.
"They're planning something tomorrow night," I say, breaking the silence. "A special meeting. Planning session for some sort of major operation."
Her fingers pause momentarily. "Did you get details?"
"Location. Time." I watch her apply antibiotic ointment with precise movements. "They’re definitely out for Shifters specifically. Which they know is illegal, judging by how secretive they’re being, but none of them seem to care. I think one or two are even cops.”
She nods, unsurprised. "The clinic conversations confirm it. No one says the word outright, but the subtext is clear."
"These aren't ignorant humans being manipulated," I continue, needing her to understand. "The ones in charge know exactly what they're hunting. And they're proud of it."
Her eyes lift to mine, searching. Whatever she sees there makes her expression soften slightly.
"We'll report to Nic in the morning," she says, securing a light bandage around my knuckles. "Figure out next steps together."
Her emphasis ontogetherisn't lost on me. Her fingers linger a moment longer than necessary on my wrist, her pulsevisible at her throat. The proximity is suddenly too much—too intimate, too confusing.
"Thanks," I say, withdrawing my hand and the moment with it. "You should get some sleep."
She steps back, the professional mask sliding back into place. "So should you. Especially if we're infiltrating a Guardian meeting tomorrow."
"We?" I raise an eyebrow.
"You're not going alone." Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Before I can respond, she turns away, rinsing her hands at the sink. The line of her shoulders suggests she expects a fight, but I find myself reluctantly agreeing.
"Fine. Together." The word sits strange on my tongue, unfamiliar after months of solitary grief. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be complicated."
She nods without turning, and I retreat to my room, the sensation of her gentle touches lingering on my skin long after the door closes between us.
Chapter 9 - Sera
Dylan's hand rests at the small of my back, warm and steady against the thin fabric of my sundress. The touch shouldn't feel this natural. My skin tingles all over.
But here, amid the cheerful chaos of Pinecrest's annual spring barbecue, we're not just Sera and Dylan anymore, reluctant lottery mates with opposing ideologies. We're the Winters—newlyweds, humans, normal people enjoying a community event.
"Sera! You came!" Becky weaves through the crowd, pink-cheeked and beaming in a floral dress that matches the paper lanterns strung across Riverside Park. "And this must be the husband I've heard so much about."
Dylan's smile transforms his entire face, softening the perpetual vigilance into something almost boyish.
"Dylan Winters." He extends his free hand, the other still pressed against my back. "I've heard great things about you, too, Becky."
The lie rolls off his tongue with disarming ease. I've barely mentioned Becky to him.
"Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone." Becky loops her arm through mine, pulling us deeper into the crowd. "You picked the perfect year to move here—the weather's never been this good for the barbecue."
The park buzzes with activity—children racing between picnic tables, teenagers clustered near the makeshift stage where a local band tunes their instruments, older couples claiming benches in the shade. Under different circumstances, it would seem idyllic. Peaceful.
But my enhanced senses pick up on other details. The men wearing Guardian pins, strategically positioned throughout the gathering. The hushed conversations that pause when we approach. The subtle scrutiny as locals assess the newcomers.
