Page 73 of Fat Arranged Mate
“She’s escaping! I need—”
I tackle her before she can finish, momentum carrying us both into the medical table. Instruments clatter to the floor. The syringe she held plunges into her thigh as we fall—poetic justice as her eyes widen in shock.
The guard charges, still bleeding. I roll, snatching a metal tray from the floor. It connects with his temple with a sickening crack. He drops, unconscious.
Diane struggles beneath me, gasping as the epinephrine races through her system.
"You'll never—get away—" Her heart pounds visibly in her neck, pupils dilating as the adrenaline hits.
I grab the radio from her belt, smashing it against the floor. "How many others? Where's Dylan?"
Pain explodes behind my eyes, the head injury reasserting itself. I sway, fighting unconsciousness.
Diane laughs, manic from the epinephrine. "Too late for him. Poor—monsters—” She wheezes.
I press the scissors to her throat. "Where am I? How far from town?"
She gasps as her heart races unnaturally fast. "What did you—do to me—"
"Gave you a taste of your own medicine." I stand unsteadily, the room spinning around me. "Your heart's fine. Just racing from the epi. You should be grateful I’m not going to kill you.”
I stagger to the door, checking the hallway before slipping through. The main room stands empty—a basic hunting cabin with sparse furniture. Through the window, I spot a dense forest; no other buildings are visible. Night has fallen completely.
My head throbs with each step, nausea rising as I force my battered body to move. Outside, cool air hits my face, momentarily clearing the fog. I orientate myself by the stars—north is that way, which means town lies south. And the cottage—
A shout from inside propels me forward. I sprint into the tree line, ignoring the branches tearing at my clothes and skin. My legs feel leaden, coordination compromised by the head injury. Each jarring step sends fresh agony through my skull.
Behind me, voices. Flashlight beams cut through darkness. I push deeper into the forest, ducking low beneath branches, fighting to put distance between us.
Five miles to town. Maybe seven to the cottage. In my condition, without supplies, in the dark, the odds stack impossibly high.
But Dylan is there. Or was. They said they'd ‘dealt with him’. I refuse to believe what that implies.
I pause behind a massive oak, pressing my forehead against rough bark as the world spins sickeningly. Blood trickles down my temple, sticky and warm. The silver in my system burns through veins, weakening an already compromised body.
Voices grow louder, coordinated search patterns spreading through the forest. Searching for him or me, I don’t know. I force myself onward, using trees for support, each step a victory against pain and gravity.
For one terrible moment, blackness threatens to swallow me again. I fight it, clawing back to consciousness through sheer will.
Dylan needs me.
Chapter 26 - Dylan
Blood.
The first thing I find after I track her scent into the woods is blood—dark droplets scattered across pine needles like morbid breadcrumbs. Sera's blood, unmistakable to my heightened senses. The metallic scent of it fires every protective instinct in my body, my wolf clawing for release, for vengeance.
I force it down, channeling the rage into focus. Tracking, not tearing. Finding, not destroying.
The abandoned Guardian outpost sits empty when I arrive, front door hanging open like a slack-jawed mouth. Inside, more blood—a larger pool on the floor of a back room outfitted as a makeshift medical space. Restraints dangle from an overturned chair. A broken radio. An unconscious Diane. Signs of struggle.
But no Sera.
I press my palm to the blood smear—still tacky. Recent.
"Sera," I whisper to the empty room, as if her name alone might conjure her. The silence that answers is deafening.
Outside again, I circle the cabin like a predator, searching for trail signs. There, at the northern edge of the clearing, trampled undergrowth and the faintest hint of her scent mixed with fear-sweat and blood. She ran this way.
