Page 9 of Fat Arranged Mate
My arms finally give out, and I collapse to the floor, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. Or maybe it's something else. I wouldn't know. I haven't cried since that night. Not once.
Through the window, I can see pack members going about their day—living, as Sera would probably call it. The lottery is tomorrow. Another pack tradition, another step in pretending life goes on as normal.
For everyone else, maybe it does.
For me, the only normal left is vigilance. Protection. Making sure no one else loses what I lost. And if Sera or anyone else thinks that makes me paranoid, so be it.
Better paranoid than broken beyond repair. Again.
Chapter 3 - Sera
The Hollow glows with torchlight, flames dancing in the evening breeze, casting long shadows across anxious faces. I stand among thirty other unmated females, my heart hammering so loudly I'm certain everyone can hear it. The ceremonial clearing feels both too small and impossibly vast—a circle of ancient oaks surrounding a natural depression in the earth where Silvercreek has conducted its most sacred rituals for generations I wasn’t here to witness.
"Breathe," Caleb whispers beside me. A fellow Cheslem refugee insisted on walking me here, though as a male, he'll have to join the outer circle once the ceremony begins. "You look like you're about to pass out."
"That's still an option," I mutter, tugging at the sleeve of my dress—a borrowed navy-blue thing that Ruby insisted would bring out my eyes. As if looking pretty matters when my future hangs in the balance of a glorified raffle.
All around us, pack members file into the Hollow, arranging themselves in concentric circles around the central platform. The hierarchy is clear—eligible females in the innermost ring, then mated pairs, then single males, with elders and the Alpha's inner circle elevated on the wooden platform that stands opposite the ancient oak known as the Mother Tree. The energy pulses with anticipation, excitement, tradition.
I feel none of it. Only dread, coiling cold in my stomach.
"It'll be fine," Caleb says, squeezing my arm. "Your name is one of many. The odds—"
"That's what Ruby said about her lottery." I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Look how that turned out."
Caleb starts to respond, but is cut off by a low drumbeat. The signal for all to take their places. He gives my hand a final squeeze before melting into the crowd, leaving me standing among women I barely know, all of us prey to ancient tradition and random chance.
The drums grow louder as Alpha Nic and Luna ascend the platform, followed by Thomas and Fiona, then James and Ruby. Ruby catches my eye and gives me an encouraging thumbs-up that does nothing to settle my nerves. Elder Amelia, the recently appointed head of the council after the previous Head Elder’s death three months ago, stands tall and dignified behind them, her silver-streaked dark hair gleaming in the torchlight. At forty-five, she's younger than most who might take such a position, but carries herself with unmistakable authority.
And then Dylan appears, the last to join the assembly on the platform, dressed in finery I can’t bring myself to focus on. Even from this distance, his discomfort is evident in the rigid set of his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw. His eyes scan the crowd, passing over the eligible females without lingering. He looks like a man facing execution rather than potential mating.
I can relate.
The drums cease abruptly. Alpha Nic steps forward, his voice carrying effortlessly across the Hollow.
"We gather tonight to honor one of our oldest traditions—the mating lottery." His eyes sweep over the assembled pack, warmth and authority balanced in his gaze. "For generations, Silvercreek has trusted fate and the wisdom of our elders to guide compatible wolves together, strengthening our bloodlines and our bonds as pack."
Luna moves to stand beside him, her hand slipping naturally into his. "In recent years, this tradition has broughtunexpected joy to many, including ourselves." Her smile touches Nic briefly before returning to the crowd. "What begins as duty often blossoms into something deeper, when we open ourselves to possibility."
My fingers twist nervously in the fabric of my dress. Easy for her to say. Luna was paired with the Alpha—the most respected position in the pack. I'd be lucky if whoever draws my name someday doesn't immediately demand a redraw.
Elder Amelia steps forward, her voice clear and commanding. "The lottery has sustained us through war, through peace, through times of great change—like the one we find ourselves in now." Her knowing eyes seem to find me among the women, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. "With new members joining our ranks, tradition becomes even more vital. It binds us, reminds us who we are."
All of this performance, I realize—the speeches, the explanations—is for us, their new members. They’re introducing us to the system that will govern the rest of our lives.
The thought makes me shiver. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, I find myself thinking.
Nic nods, gesturing toward Dylan, who stands rigid and expressionless. "Tonight, Dylan Zaleska, our recently promoted lead security officer, has volunteered to participate in the lottery, demonstrating his commitment to Silvercreek's future."
A ripple of appreciative murmurs passes through the crowd. Dylan Zaleska—respected, feared, admired. His loyalty to the pack is legendary, even though I’ve heard he hasn’t been known as a fighter for very long. Nonetheless, every unmated female around me straightens slightly, hope brightening their eyes. Even those who find him intimidating recognize the status that would come with such a match.
Everyone except me. I struggle to keep my expression neutral while silently calculating escape routes. The path behind that leads to the eastern border. If I move quickly enough after the ceremony...
"The eligible females will now step forward to be recognized," Elder Amelia announces.
One by one, we move into the center of the Hollow. Some walk confidently; chins high. Others shuffle nervously. I force my legs to carry me forward, focusing on the simple mechanics of movement to keep panic at bay. One foot, then the other. Breathe in, breathe out.
In the torchlight, thirty-one women form a circle around the ceremonial fire pit in the center of the Hollow. I count faces, calculating odds. One in thirty-one. Roughly a three percent chance. Statistically insignificant. I cling to this mathematical comfort as Elder Amelia approaches with a wooden bowl containing our names.
