Page 74 of Fat Arranged Mate
I follow, moving faster now that I have direction. The forest thickens, branches slapping against my face, but I barely feel them. Every sense is tuned to a single frequency—find Sera. The rest—my own injuries, the danger, the exposed nature of my search—none of it matters.
Her trail leads into a labyrinth of deadfall and thick brush. Smart—she's using dense cover to mask her movements. Even injured, she thinks tactically. Pride flares briefly before worry smothers it again.
The blood trail grows sparser, but I find other signs—broken twigs at shoulder height, a scrap of fabric caught on thorns, a partial footprint in mud. She's moving south, toward Silvercreek.
Toward home.
I follow for nearly a mile before the trail suddenly veers east—sharp, unplanned, as if she changed direction in a hurry. Pursuit. The thought sends fresh adrenaline coursing through me. I move faster, caution abandoned for speed.
The ground drops away into a ravine, steep sides cutting through the forest like an ancient scar. More blood here—she fell. The image of her tumbling down this slope, already injured, sends my wolf surging against its restraints again. I slide down the embankment, half-running, half-falling in my haste.
At the bottom, a stream cuts through stone, gurgling quietly in the darkness. Her scent is stronger here, fresher. I'm gaining ground.
"Sera!" I risk calling, voice low but carrying. Nothing answers, but the whispering leaves overhead.
The creek bends sharply west, and her trail follows it. Smart again—water masks scent, confuses trackers, provides direction. Every tactical choice she makes only increases my admiration, my fear, my—
Love.
The word rises unbidden, unavoidable. I love her. Not despite our differences but because of them—her stubbornness,her compassion, her infuriating belief in peace when all I've known is war. She balances me in ways I never knew I needed.
And now she's hurt, hunted, because of me.
The revelation drives me forward with renewed determination. The stream widens, spilling into a small clearing where fallen trees create a natural fortress. There—a flash of movement near the base of a massive oak.
"Sera?" I call again, softer now.
A shadow detaches from the darkness.
"Dylan?" Her voice is ragged, disbelieving.
Relief floods through me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckle. Three long strides and I reach her, gathering her into my arms with desperate urgency. She clings to me just as fiercely, her body trembling against mine.
"I thought they killed you," she whispers against my chest, fingers digging into my shoulders as if afraid I might vanish. "Diane said—they said—"
"I'm here," I murmur into her hair, breathing in her scent beneath the blood and fear. "I'm okay."
I pull back slightly, needing to see her face. What I find wrenches a growl from deep in my chest. Blood matts her hair on the right side, trailing down her temple. Her left cheek is bruised, swelling around her eye. But her eyes—those golden-brown eyes that have challenged me from the first moment—remain clear and fierce despite the pain.
"You're hurt," I say, voice rough with emotion. My fingers hover near the head wound, afraid to touch, to cause more pain. I can tell there’s something else, too, perhaps an injury I can’t see. She’s swaying. She looks awful, pallid and half-dead under the moon.
"So are you," she counters, eyes tracking to the bloodstain on my side where the bullet grazed me. Always the healer, even now.
We stand there for a heartbeat, drinking in each other's presence, the reality of survival sweeter than any fantasy.
"I thought I lost you," I admit, the words tearing free from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "When I found the cottage empty, your blood—"
"I knew you'd find me," she says simply, with a certainty that staggers me. "I just had to stay alive long enough."
Something breaks inside me—the last wall, the final resistance. I cup her face in my hands, mindful of her injuries, and press my forehead to hers.
"Sera," I whisper, her name a prayer and confession. "I need to tell you—"
"I know," she interrupts, eyes locked with mine. "Me too."
And then we're kissing, desperate and tender all at once. Her lips are chapped, tasting of blood and forest and life. I try to be gentle, mindful of her wounds, but she pulls me closer, fingers tangling in my hair, demanding more. I give it, pouring weeks of denial, want, and fear into the connection.
When we finally break apart, I'm stunned to find wetness on my cheeks—tears I didn't realize I'd shed mingling with hers.
