Page 29 of Fat Arranged Mate
What is wrong with me? This is Dylan Winters—Silvercreek's most paranoid wolf, the man who sees threats in every shadow, who thinks violence is an acceptable firstresponse to danger. The man who embodies everything I've been running from since escaping Cheslem.
Yet my body betrays me with its memory of his touch, its treacherous response to his proximity.
I change into pajamas and record my observations in my journal—a habit inherited from my grandmother—focusing on facts rather than feelings. The clear evidence that Pinecrest's anti-shifter sentiment is cultivated rather than reaction-based. The strategic positioning of Guardian leadership throughout community institutions. The calculated way they're assessing us as potential allies or threats.
But as I lie in bed later, sleep eludes me. Through the thin wall, I can hear Dylan moving in his room—the soft tap of computer keys, the occasional creak of floorboards as he paces. Is he also replaying moments from tonight? The games, the dancing, the brief connection when our eyes met?
Or is he, as always, focused solely on the mission, on the threat, on the next strategic move?
Chapter 10 - Dylan
The Elk's Lodge sits half a mile beyond town limits—a weathered building of dark wood and clouded windows. Trucks and SUVs fill its gravel lot, their bumpers adorned with hunting decals and faded political stickers. No official Guardian emblems visible from the outside. They're not completely stupid.
I park the borrowed pickup—a loaner from a "helpful neighbor" who thought my sedan too impractical for mountain living—and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I've cultivated subtle changes to my appearance for tonight: a baseball cap pulled low, flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to expose forearms that suggest physical work despite my cover as a software developer. Small details to suggest I belong.
"Just reconnaissance," Sera had insisted before I left, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "Don't engage, don't challenge, don't—"
"I know how to maintain cover," I'd cut her off, irritated by the concern in her eyes. As if I were some untrained pup on his first mission.
Now, approaching the building alone, I find her words echoing uncomfortably. She wasn't wrong to worry. This gathering radiates danger—not the clean threat of combat, but the murky peril of hatred disguised as community protection.
Two men flank the entrance, checking arrivals with casual scrutiny that doesn't fool me. They're sentries, plain and simple.
"Dylan, right?" The taller one extends a hand. "Mike's buddy. He said you might come."
I shake his hand, noting the calluses. Manual labor, probably construction. "That's right. Hope it's okay, I'm here."
"Any friend of Mike's is welcome." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "First time, though, we gotta ask—you got any bleeding-heart tendencies about wildlife? Any of that save-the-wolves bullshit?"
Direct. Unexpected. I force a laugh. "Hell no. I've got a wife who wants kids someday. Way I see it, dangerous predators and family don't mix."
The calculated answer works. Both men relax fractionally, and the second one—shorter, with a beard that doesn't quite hide acne scars—claps my shoulder. "You'll fit right in. Head on through. Beer's in the back."
Inside, the lodge has been transformed from its usual community space to something more primal. Hunting trophies line the walls—standard fare at first glance, but I quickly spot the abnormalities. Wolf heads mounted with unnatural snarls. A pelt too large for any normal wolf, stretched obscenely across one wall. Photos tacked to a corkboard, showing men posed with their kills.
Thirty-two men and four women occupy the space, clustered in small groups around folded tables. The Guardian pins are displayed openly here, no longer concealed as they are in town. Some wear full medallions on chains—higher rank, I'm guessing.
I accept a beer from a cooler and drift toward Mike, who waves me over with genuine welcome. His easy acceptance provides the perfect cover to observe.
"Glad you made it," he says, introducing me to his circle. "This here's Dylan, just moved to town. Works with computers but wants to learn the ropes."
Names wash over me—Jim, Taylor, Doug, Bryce—accompanied by firm handshakes and assessing looks. I catalogfaces, building mental profiles of each. The ex-military stance of Taylor. The pamphlets peeking from Doug's shirt pocket. The alcohol flush already spreading across Bryce's neck despite the early hour.
"So, what exactly does this group do?" I ask, careful to sound interested rather than suspicious. "Mike mentioned protection patrols, but I'm still not clear on the details."
Jim—a lean man with calloused hands and sun-creased eyes—snorts into his beer. "Official version or real answer?"
"Real answer," I reply, taking a calculated risk. "Wouldn't be here if I wasn't serious."
The men exchange glances, then Jim nods. "Officially, we're a wildlife management association focused on predator control. Keeping the wilderness safe for families."
"And unofficially?"
"We hunt monsters," Taylor says flatly. His eyes hold the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen combat. "Things that shouldn't exist. Things the government pretends arepeople."
The directness is jarring. No euphemisms. No coded language. Here, behind closed doors, they speak plainly about shifters.
"You mean..." I let my voice trail off, playing the uncertain newcomer.
