Page 79 of Fat Arranged Mate
The lie hangs between us. She's not fine. Whatever resistance she developed at Cheslem, it's failing against Diane's injection, combined with her head wound. The silver is winning.
I consider our options with brutal efficiency. Continue together, move slowly, likely fail to reach Silvercreek before the hunters' operation begins. Or split up—me running ahead at full speed to warn the pack, leaving Sera hidden but defenseless.
The old me wouldn't have hesitated. Pack above all. Mission first. No individual outweighs the many.
But I'm not that wolf anymore.
"Change of plans," I announce, decision crystallizing with sudden, perfect clarity. "Silvercreek can handle themselves."
Confusion clouds her fever-bright eyes. "What? No, we have to warn—"
"Nic already knows hunters were spotted. James would have increased patrols after I missed check-in." I gather our meager supplies. "They're prepared, even without specific intelligence. They’ll be alright.”
"But—"
"There's a hunting cabin two miles east," I continue, ignoring her weak protest. "Game warden's place. Stocked with supplies, medical kit."
"Dylan, the pack—"
"The pack has survived centuries without me," I cut her off gently. "They'll survive today, too."
Before she can argue further, I lift her into my arms.
"Put me down," she mumbles, though her head falls against my shoulder in betrayal of her words.
"Not a chance."
I navigate the forest with instinctive surety, moving east rather than southwest, away from my lifelong sense of duty.
Each step should feel like betrayal. Instead, they feel like coming home.
The cabin appears after an hour's steady trek—small, weathered, nestled between ancient pines. No vehicles nearby, no recent scents. Abandoned for the season.
Inside, dust motes dance in shafts of morning light. A single room with stone fireplace, narrow bed, basic supplies. Ilay Sera gently on the bed, her skin now alarmingly hot against mine.
"Stay with me," I murmur, rummaging through cabinets for the medical kit.
I find it beneath the sink—standard first aid supplies plus a suture kit. Nothing specific for silver poisoning, but clean bandages and antiseptic will help. I gather what I need, then return to her side.
Her eyes track my movements, fever-bright but conscious. "You should be warning the pack."
"I'm exactly where I need to be." I dampen a cloth with cool water, placing it against her forehead. "Now stop talking and let me help you."
I clean her head wound with steady hands, gentler than I knew I could be. The gash needs stitches, but infection is the immediate concern. I apply antiseptic, wincing when she hisses in pain.
"Sorry," I murmur.
"Since when do you apologize?" she manages, a ghost of her usual spirit flickering through the fever.
"Since you," I answer simply.
The silver poisoning manifests as dark tendrils beneath her skin, spreading from the injection site. I recall her teaching me field medicine during our first week together—how silver must be drawn out, not just treated topically.
I prepare a paste of salt and baking soda from the cabin's supplies, applying it to the spreading lines. Her breath catches at the sting.
"I know it hurts," I say, hand cupping her cheek. "But it'll draw the silver toward the surface."
"When did you get so smart about medicine?" she whispers.
