Page 52 of Fat Arranged Mate
"My Thomas saw one last week," a woman in a red cardigan offers. "He was checking the back property line and spotted it watching from the tree line. Huge thing, bigger than any natural wolf."
More murmurs, this time edged with fear.
It’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit. But they believe it anyway.
"That's why our men's work is so important," Marianne nods gravely. "The Guardians are the only thing keeping these creatures from overrunning our community."
The conversation unfolds with disturbing familiarity—these women believe themselves under siege, threatened by monstrous forces lurking just beyond their awareness. They speak of shifters with the same fearful reverence medieval villages might have discussed witches or demons. It makes me shudder. In moments like this, I can understand Dylan a little better.
"What do you think, Sera?" Bethany turns to me suddenly. "Has Dylan talked to you about what they're doing to keep us safe?"
All eyes shift to me, expectant. I feel their collective scrutiny like a physical touch, assessing, evaluating.
Something clicks into place inside me—a mechanism I haven't accessed since Cheslem. My expression softens, voice modulating to a slightly higher pitch, body language shifting subtly to mirror Marianne's posture.
"He doesn't share all the details," I say with just the right note of wifely concern. "But I know enough to be grateful for men willing to protect what matters. My father always said a community is only as strong as those willing to defend it."
The lie flows effortlessly, words assembling themselves without conscious thought. I watch their faces relax, accepting me as one of their own—a woman who understands her place in their carefully ordered world.
The realization chills me: this performance isn't learned but remembered. This is how I survived Cheslem—by becoming whatever was safest in the moment, by reflecting back exactly what dangerous people wanted to see.
"Well said," Marianne approves, exchanging satisfied glances with Diane. "That's exactly the kind of support our men need."
For the next hour, I maintain this performance—nodding at appropriate moments, offering carefully calibrated comments that reinforce their worldview without revealing my own. I become the perfect Guardian wife: concerned but not frightened, supportive but not questioning, present but not intrusive.
All the while, something inside me curls tighter with each passing minute. A part of me is screaming, trapped behind this pleasant facade. A part of me wants to shake these women, to make them see the humanity in those they fear. A part of me wishes Dylan would burst through the door and end this charade, his very presence a repudiation of everything these women believe about shifters.
The thought stops me cold. Since when do I want Dylan—aggressive, vengeance-driven Dylan—to rescue me from anything?
By the time the meeting ends, my face aches from maintaining its pleasant expression. I accept Marianne's invitation to next week's gathering with appropriate enthusiasm, exchange phone numbers with three women, and promise to bring my "famous" lemon bars to the bake sale.
Outside, I gulp fresh air like a drowning woman breaking the surface. My hands tremble slightly as I start the car, the performance having extracted a cost I hadn't anticipated.
***
Dylan is at the kitchen table when I return, maps and surveillance notes spread before him. He glances up briefly, nods in acknowledgment, then returns to his work.
"How was the meeting?" he asks, voice carefully neutral.
"Informative." I set my purse down, maintaining the distance we've established since morning. "They're just as radicalized as the men, maybe more so. They truly believe they're under attack."
He makes a notation on one of the maps. "Fear is a powerful motivator."
"It's more than fear," I say, watching his precise movements. "It's a complete alternate reality they've constructed. One where they're the perpetual victims, always on the defensive."
"You’ve said the same about me, you know," he comments, not looking up.
The implied parallel to Silvercreek's (and his own) defensive posture isn't lost on me, but I let it pass. I can’t bear to argue with him. If I do, I’m scared I’ll kiss him.
"I've got surveillance tonight," he says after a moment. "The Guardian leadership is meeting at Donovan's ranch to finalize something. Might be our best chance to get concrete details on whatever they're planning."
"Be careful," I say automatically, then regret the concern in my voice.
His pen pauses mid-stroke, eyes flicking to mine briefly before returning to the map. "Always am."
The conversation dies, leaving only the ticking clock and the scratch of his pen to fill the silence. I retreat to my room,ostensibly to record notes from the meeting but really to escape the suffocating tension between us.
That night, sleep eludes me. I've tried reading, meditation, even counting sheep—nothing silences the cacophony of my conflicting thoughts. The meeting replays in fragments, my own performance disturbing me more than their hatred. The ease with which I became someone else, someone acceptable to them, suggests a fundamental instability in my own identity that I've never fully confronted.
