Page 38 of Fat Arranged Mate
But he is. Not physically—I can see that now as I move closer. His skin holds the waxy pallor of recent shock, eyes toowide, pupils dilated despite the lamp's glow. His hands, always steady, tremble slightly at his sides.
Nightmare. The recognition comes from intimate familiarity with the symptoms.
I retrieve the dustpan from beneath the sink without comment. Some messes are easier to clean than others. The ceramic fragments scrape against worn linoleum as I sweep them up, the mundane task offering us both a moment to recalibrate.
"You don't have to do that," he says, finally turning to watch me.
"I know." I empty the shards into the trash, then fill the kettle. "Do you want tea?"
He blinks, as if the ordinary question belongs to a different reality than the one he's currently inhabiting. After a moment, he nods once.
The kettle's whistle provides structure to the formless night. I prepare two mugs—chamomile for myself, black tea with a spoonful of honey for him. I've noticed that's how he takes it, though we've never discussed such trivial preferences.
I place his mug on the coffee table and settle into the armchair, tucking my feet beneath me. Dylan remains standing for several heartbeats before lowering himself onto the couch, his posture rigid as if he were prepared for sudden movement.
"You don't have to stay up," he says, the words sounding rehearsed, mechanical.
"I know," I repeat, sipping my tea. The warmth spreads through my chest, a small comfort against the night's chill.
Outside, rain begins to fall—soft at first, then steadier, drumming against the roof in rhythmic patterns. The sound fills our silence, making it less empty somehow.
"Does it happen often?" I ask finally, keeping my voice neutral.
His gaze lifts from his untouched mug. "Often enough."
I nod, understanding the economy of his response. Some truths are measured in careful teaspoons rather than poured freely.
"Mine come in cycles," I offer. "Worse when I'm under stress."
He studies me with unexpected intensity, as if seeing past the careful facade I maintain during daylight hours. For a moment, I think he'll deflect—change the subject or retreat behind the professional distance we typically maintain. Instead, he takes a long drink of his tea.
"What do you see?" he asks. "In yours."
The question catches me off guard. We don't do this—share vulnerabilities or acknowledge weaknesses. Our alliance is tactical, nothing more. Yet something in the hour's isolation, in the rain's steady cadence, creates a pocket outside our normal constraints.
"Cheslem," I say, the name still bitter on my tongue. "The way it was... toward the end."
"The corruption?"
I nod, pulling my knees closer to my chest. "It didn't happen all at once. That's what people don't understand. It was gradual, almost imperceptible at first."
His silence offers space rather than resistance. The sensation is so unfamiliar that words begin to spill forth without conscious permission.
"I was born there. Never knew anything else until Silvercreek. The early years weren't... terrible. Strict, yes. Hierarchical, absolutely. But then our Alpha began the rituals."
My fingers trace the rim of my mug, focusing on its smooth texture. "Blood magic. Ancient practices twisted to serve modern hunger for power. He claimed it would make us stronger, more unified. And it did, in a way. But strength built on corruption is still corruption."
"How old were you?" Dylan asks, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
"Eleven when it started. Too young to question, old enough to remember what came before." The memories surface like debris after a flood—scattered, waterlogged, but recognizable. "He began with the warriors first. The strongest wolves. Then the Elders. Eventually, everyone was required to participate."
"Except you."
My gaze snaps to his. "How did you know?"
"You've never shifted fully," he says simply. "Not since I've known you."
I look away. "My grandmother hid me during the worst rituals. Said I was too weak, too sickly. She lied to keep me from participating." A harsh laugh escapes me. "The irony is that by protecting me from corruption, she ensured I never developed proper shifting abilities. Never became a 'real wolf' by Cheslem standards. I still have a weak shift to this day.”
