Page 35 of Fat Arranged Mate
The rolling door completes its ascent, revealing a loading area illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. The men work with practiced coordination, opening the van's rear doors and unloading what initially appear to be large animal transport cages.
The scent hits me before I fully process what I'm seeing—the musky odor of wild wolves, mixed with fear, stress, and the metallic undertone of blood.
Not shifters. Actual wolves.
Four cages, each containing a single animal. Gray wolves, likely from the northern territories where populations have rebounded in recent decades. They pace their small confines or lie motionless, clearly tranquilized but beginning to stir.
"This one's coming around," one man calls, pointing to a large male with silver-tipped fur. "Better dose him again before we move him."
Donovan shakes his head. "Save the tranqs. We need them awake if we're gonna make 'em shift."
My blood runs cold. These idiots actually believe they've caught shifters.
The men wheel the cages inside, and I shift position to maintain visual contact through a broken window. The warehouse interior has been crudely divided into sections with tarps and portable fencing. Metal tables hold an assortment of tools—hunting knives, chains, cattle prods. Along one wall, a row of cages larger than the transport ones stand empty, waiting.
"When's Jenkins getting here?" asks a heavyset man as he secures the wolf cages in place.
"Said around ten," Donovan replies, checking his watch. "Bringing that wolfsbane stuff he got from his cousin in Idaho. Says it'll force 'em to show their human side."
"Bout time we caught some," another man adds, peering into a cage. "Been tracking these for weeks. The big one's gotta be their leader—see how he's watching us?"
The natural vigilance of a wild predator misinterpreted as human intelligence. These men don't understand the basic difference between shifters and regular wolves. They're looking for confirmation of their prejudice, seeing what they want to see.
One wolf stirs more actively, rising on unsteady legs within its cage. It's a young female, probably no more than two years old, with a distinctive white patch on her chest. She shakes her head, disoriented from the drugs but coming alert.
"That one's feisty," someone comments. "Bet she's pretty as a human."
"We'll find out soon enough," Donovan says with a chuckle that turns my stomach.
The casual cruelty in their tone—the complete absence of recognition that they're discussing actual animals, not shifters—sends me hurtling back in time. For some reason, I’m thinking about Ethan again.
"Is it bad, Dyl?" Ethan looks up at me, twelve years old and trying not to cry. His ankle is already swelling, twisted awkwardly from his fall on the hiking trail.
"Let me see, buddy." I kneel beside him, carefully unlacing his boot. My hands are gentle despite their size, assessing the injury with the precision our father taught us. "Just a sprain, I think. We'll get you fixed up."
His trust in me is absolute, unwavering. "You always know what to do."
"Not always," I admit, retrieving the first aid kit from my pack. "Remember when you got that splinter last summer and I made it worse trying to dig it out?"
He grins despite the pain. "The doctor was so mad. Said you had the medical skills of a bear."
"A very smart, talented bear," I correct, wrapping his ankle with careful pressure. "How's that feel? Not too tight?"
"It's okay." His hand grips my wrist. "Are we gonna have to go back? I wanted to see the waterfall."
The disappointment in his voice makes my chest ache. "Waterfall's not going anywhere, bud. We'll come back when you're healed up."
"Promise?"
"On my honor," I say with grandiosity, making him smile.
I carry him three miles back to our cabin, his slight weight nothing against my chest, his head tucked against my shoulder. The entire way, I'm hyperaware of every jolt, every uneven step that might cause him additional pain.
Later, with his ankle wrapped and elevated, he falls asleep on the couch while I keep watch, as if my vigilance alone can ward off further harm.
The memory evaporates as quickly as it came, leaving behind the hollow ache that never truly fades. I force myself back to the present. To the warehouse. To the wolves who don't understand what's happening to them.
The young female wolf locks eyes with me through the window, her gaze somehow knowing despite the impossibility of seeing me in the darkness. For one heartbeat, I consider intervention—rushing in, causing chaos, creating opportunity for escape.
