Page 36 of Fat Arranged Mate
But that would accomplish nothing except blowing my cover and endangering our mission. These four wolves versus the safety of entire packs? The math is brutal but clear.
So, I watch. I document everything in my mind, evidence for later use. And I silently promise both the wolves and myself that this won't go unanswered. They might not be shifters, but these wolves don’t deserve this. Selfishly, perhaps, I’m glad Sera isn’t here to see this happening.
An hour passes. Jenkins arrives carrying a duffel bag that he handles with excessive caution.
"Got the wolfsbane right here," he announces. "My grandpa used this same recipe in the old country."
I can tell even from here by its scent that what he has is not, in fact, wolfsbane. Their science is nothing but backwoods superstition, passed down and embellished through generations of ignorance. These men aren't researchers—they're torturers with a twisted mythology to justify their cruelty.
But that doesn’t make them any less terrifying.
"Let's start with the big one," Donovan decides. "He's the alpha. Break him, and the others will follow."
They move the cage to a central area where chains hang from exposed rafters. I've seen enough. I have what we need—confirmation of their operations, evidence of their methods, identification of key participants. Staying longer risks detection or, worse, action I can't take back.
I retreat silently through the underbrush, every instinct screaming against leaving the wolves behind. But the mission comes first. Always.
***
The following night finds me in a different clearing, where six Guardian members wait around a small fire. Tonight is my official initiation—the test that will cement my cover and grant me deeper access to their operations.
"Dylan!" Mike greets me with a backslap that's almost friendly. "Right on time."
The others nod in acknowledgment. I recognize most of them from the meeting at the Elk's Lodge, plus one new face—a younger man with the vacant eyes of someone who's found purpose in hatred.
"Ready to become a Guardian?" Rick Dawson asks, handing me a beer I won't drink but must pretend to.
"Been looking forward to it," I reply with manufactured enthusiasm.
The initiation is part hazing ritual, part skills assessment. First, a recitation of their creed—protection of human lands from ‘unnatural predators’. Then, a series of targets set up in the dark woods, to be hit with minimal light.
"Use these," Rick says, passing me a box of ammunition. I don't need to check to know they're silver-tipped. "Standard issue for all members."
The shooting test is almost insultingly simple for someone with my training, though I deliberately miss two shots to avoid appearing too proficient. The men nod approvingly as I hit eight out of ten targets in near-darkness.
"Natural talent," Mike comments. "Military background?"
"I hunted a bit as a kid," I lie smoothly. "My dad was big on self-sufficiency when we could get out to the country in the summer."
The final test involves a mock tracking exercise, following signs through the forest that eventually lead to a crude effigy of a wolf hung from a tree branch. The expectation is clear from the rifle Rick hands me.
"Finish it," he instructs, voice heavy with ceremony.
I raise the weapon, sighting down the barrel at the straw-filled target. In my mind, I see Ethan's face the day he first shifted—fourteen years old, thrilled and terrified by the wolf emerging from within. I see his broken body after the League attack. I see the wolves in cages at the warehouse.
The rifle cracks, the sound echoing through the trees. The effigy's head explodes in a shower of straw.
"Welcome to the Guardians, brother," Rick intones, pressing a pin into my palm. The metal is cold against my skin, heavy with implications.
The drive home afterwards is a blur of conflicting emotions. The pin burns in my pocket like a hot coal. My hands feel unclean, though I've harmed no actual wolves tonight. The pretense, the complicity required to maintain cover—it weighs more heavily with each passing day.
At the cottage, lights still glow despite the late hour. Sera sits at the kitchen table, papers spread before her, face drawn with fatigue. She looks up as I enter, relief briefly softening her features before concern takes its place.
"You look terrible," she says without preamble.
"Long night." I place the Guardian pin on the table between us. "I'm officially one of them now."
Her eyes fix on the emblem, then rise to meet mine. "What did they make you do?"
