Page 54 of Fat Arranged Mate
Briggs turns, giving me my first clear view of his face. Heavy jowls, thinning hair combed over a balding crown, eyeslike chips of flint. Recognition hits like a physical blow—this man was there. Not just any League member, but one of the raid commanders. I'd seen him shouting orders as they surrounded the campsite where Ethan and I had been sleeping.
I'd been tracking that face for a year with no success, and here he stands, holding court like some small-town king.
My vision edges with red, wolf surging beneath my skin. I clamp down on the shift with brutal force, focusing on mundane details to anchor myself. The peeling paint on the wall. The coffee stain on Mike's shirt. The squeak of boots on linoleum.
"You okay?" Mike asks, frowning. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Fine," I manage. "Just didn't sleep well."
He accepts this with a nod, steering us toward the refreshment table. I focus on breathing, on maintaining the mask, on not tearing Briggs' throat out in front of thirty witnesses.
The meeting begins with a typical ceremony—pledges, prayers, chest-beating about heritage and protection. Donovan introduces Briggs as the keynote speaker, voice thick with admiration.
"Thanks for coming out tonight, brothers." Briggs's voice carries the practiced cadence of a preacher. "Glad to see so many warriors standing up for human lands."
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd.
"What we're facing ain't just some animal problem." He paces the front of the room, hands gesturing for emphasis. "The government wants you to believe these are endangered species. Protected wildlife." He spits the words like they taste foul. "But we know better, don't we?"
"Damn right!" someone shouts from the back.
"These ain't normal wolves." Briggs slaps a map taped to the wall behind him. "These are abominations. Monsters hiding in human skin until the moon tells 'em different."
I maintain my neutral expression through sheer force of will, stomach churning at the irony. If they knew what stood among them now, how quickly their bravado would turn to terror.
"Now, the Pinecrest boys have been doing good work," Briggs continues, nodding toward Donovan. "Setting up safe zones, running patrols. But it's time we coordinate our efforts across county lines."
He unveils a larger regional map, crudely marked with red zones and arrows.
"We've identified three major packs operating in the tri-county area," he says, tapping different locations. "Each one with maybe fifty to a hundred members. They think they're being clever, staying just within the law. But they don't understand one simple truth."
He pauses, scanning the room with theatrical intensity.
"This was our land first. And we're taking it back."
The simplistic rallying cry earns whoops and applause. I join in automatically, hands moving while my mind remains coldly analytical. Briggs continues, his rhetoric growing more violent with each passing minute. The men around me absorb it like dry tinder catching spark, faces flushed with righteous anger, calling out encouragement and suggestions with increasing fervor, making increasingly violent and anatomical threats.
It would be almost comical in its backwoods melodrama if I didn't know firsthand what damage these hunters can inflict. If I hadn't held my brother's broken body, torn apart by these same righteous warriors.
As the meeting breaks into planning groups, Mike pulls me toward Briggs's circle.
"Come meet the man himself," he says, oblivious to the danger he courts by bringing a wolf to the pack leader.
Briggs shakes my hand with meaty confidence, his palm sweaty against mine.
"New recruit?" he asks Donovan, sizing me up.
"Dylan's been a quick study," Donovan confirms. "Good shot, keeps his mouth shut."
"We need more like that." Briggs holds my gaze a beat too long, something assessing in his expression. "You seem familiar. We met before? You work for Wright at all? He used to run the League, and—"
I force a casual smile. "Don't think so. Just moved to the area a few weeks back."
He nods, already moving on to the next introduction, already dismissing me from his thoughts. He doesn't remember the man whose brother he murdered. Doesn't recognize the wolf standing before him, memorizing his scent, calculating exactly how much pressure it would take to crush his windpipe.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of barely contained rage. I participate where necessary, memorize details, maintain my cover. But beneath it all, my wolf paces restlessly, demanding retribution, howling for the blood of the man who took everything from me.
The drive back to Pinecrest stretches interminably, Mike's chattering about the "great plan", the sound washing over me without penetrating. My hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled tension, claws threatening to emerge with each mile.
