Page 42 of Fat Arranged Mate
I follow her to what appears to be a supply closet, barely large enough for cleaning equipment. Without options, we squeeze inside, pulling the door closed as engines cut in the distance.
The space is absurdly small—perhaps three feet square. Sera presses against me, her back to my chest, our bodies forced into intimate alignment by the closet's constraints. I can feel her heart racing, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
"They'll hear you breathing," I whisper directly into her ear, my lips nearly brushing against her hair. "Try to match mine."
Her head nods slightly, hair sliding against my jaw. I resist the urge to inhale deeply—her scent fills the tiny space, wildflowers and clinic antiseptic and something uniquely her. Instead, I focus on controlling my own breathing, slow and steady, offering a rhythm she can follow.
Outside, voices approach—the sheriff and at least two others. Heavy boots on wooden steps. The outbuilding door creaks open.
"—best setup in the county," someone says proudly. "Got everything we need right here."
"Impressive," replies a voice I don't recognize. "These modifications look professional grade."
"Military background comes in handy," the sheriff answers. "These aren't normal wolves we're dealing with."
Sera's body tenses against mine. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around her waist, steadying her. Her hands grasp my forearms instinctively, fingers pressing into muscle.
"Still no sign of that big one you were tracking?" the unfamiliar voice asks.
"Trail went cold at the ridge line," the sheriff sounds frustrated. "Like he just disappeared. But we'll find him. Always do."
Miles. They're talking about Miles. Relief floods me—he hasn't been captured. He's still out there, possibly making his way back to pack lands already.
The men move around the space, their footsteps reverberating through the thin walls of our hiding place. One passes so close to the closet that the floorboards creak beneath his weight. Sera's grip on my arms tightens, her body pressing more firmly against mine as she tries to remain completely silent.
The contact ignites something unexpected—a rush of heat that has nothing to do with the closet's confined space. Her curves fit against me with accidental precision, the nape of her neck exposed where her hair falls forward. I find myself acutely aware of every point of contact between us, of her scent filling my lungs with each careful breath.
Minutes stretch into eternity as the men continue their inspection. They discuss upcoming operations, equipment needs, patrol schedules—information that would be invaluable under normal circumstances. But all I can focus on is Sera's body against mine, the slight tremor that runs through her when footsteps approach our hiding place again.
I tighten my hold instinctively, protective rather than restraining. She relaxes fractionally, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she leans back into me. Trust. This is what trust feels like—given freely despite every reason for caution.
Something shifts in my chest, a tectonic movement of barriers I've maintained since Ethan's death. I want to protect her not just because the mission requires it, but because I can't bear the thought of her being harmed. The realization is terrifying in its intensity.
Finally, mercifully, the voices recede. Engines start again. Tires crunch on gravel, growing distant.
Neither of us moves immediately, waiting to ensure they're truly gone. In the stillness, I become aware that my thumb is tracing small circles against her waist, an unconscious gesture of comfort I don't remember initiating.
"I think they're gone," she whispers, voice unsteady.
"Wait," I murmur against her hair. "Two more minutes to be sure."
She nods, making no attempt to pull away. We stand locked together in the darkness, her breathing now synchronized with mine, her heartbeat a quick counterpoint I can feel through her back.
When I finally release her, the loss of contact feels strangely significant. She turns within the confined space, now facing me, close enough that I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes despite the darkness.
"Miles wasn't captured," she says, voice barely audible.
"No." I struggle to focus on the mission rather than her proximity. "But they're still hunting him."
Her gaze holds mine, something unspoken passing between us. "We should go. Report back."
"Yes." But I don't move, can't move, transfixed by the slight parting of her lips, the flush spreading across her cheeks.
She reaches past me for the door handle, her arm brushing against my chest. The contact is electric, sparking awareness that races through my system like wildfire. She pauses, her face tilted up toward mine, eyes wide with recognition of whatever this is building between us.
For one suspended moment, I consider closing the distance between us. Her pulse visibly flutters at the base of her throat, matching the rapid rhythm of my own.
Instead, I step back as much as the small space allows, breaking the spell. "After you."
