Page 81 of Fat Arranged Mate
Night falls, moonlight filtering through dusty windows. The full moon rises, calling to our wolves with ancient power. Even weakened, I feel the pull beneath my skin.
Dylan tenses suddenly, head tilting toward the window.
"Vehicles," he whispers. "Coming this way."
Fear spikes through me, clearing the last cobwebs from my mind. "Hunters?"
He nods, already moving. "Three, maybe four. Must be checking outlying cabins for us."
I swing my legs over the bed's edge, ignoring the wave of dizziness. "We need to run."
"No time." He paces the small cabin, eyes scanning for options. "You're not strong enough yet."
His gaze stops at a worn rug near the fireplace. With swift movements, he pulls it aside, revealing a trap door—an old root cellar or storm shelter.
"In," he orders, pulling it open. The space below is dark, cramped, smelling of earth and old wood.
I don't argue, dropping down into darkness. Dylan follows, pulling the door closed above us just as headlights sweep across the cabin windows.
The cellar is barely large enough for both of us, forcing our bodies close in the darkness. Dylan positions himself above me, shielding me with his body while still allowing space to breathe.
"Don't move," he breathes against my ear.
Boots thud on the porch. The cabin door creaks open—they didn't even need to break in. Voices filter through the floorboards above our heads.
"Clear the main room," a familiar voice orders. Donovan.
"Someone's been here," another responds. "Recently. Bed's messed up."
"Blood on these bandages," a third voice notes. "Check everywhere. They can't have gone far."
Footsteps move directly overhead, wood groaning beneath their weight. Dust filters down between the slats, landing on my face. I hold my breath, feeling Dylan's heart hammer against my chest.
His eyes meet mine in the dim light filtering through the floor cracks. We communicate without words—his slight head shake when I shift, my hand squeezing his arm when a hunter moves too close to our hiding spot.
"Nothing here," someone reports. "But they were definitely treating wounds. Silver poisoning, looks like."
"Check outside," Donovan orders. "Davis, look under the bed. Anderson, check cabinets. I want every inch covered."
More footsteps. A creak directly above us.
"Hey," a voice calls, too close. "What's this rug doing moved?"
Dylan's body tenses against mine. They've found the trap door.
"Think I found something," the hunter continues, footsteps stopping directly overhead.
In the split second before discovery becomes inevitable, Dylan's eyes lock with mine. A decision passes between us.
He presses his lips briefly to my forehead, then shifts his weight.
"What was that?" the hunter asks, hearing the movement.
Dylan explodes upward, throwing the trap door open with enough force to send the hunter stumbling backward. In the same fluid motion, he grabs my hand, pulling me up after him.
"Run!" he shouts, shoving a chair into the startled hunter's path.
We burst through the cabin's back door as shouts erupt behind us. The full moon bathes the forest in silver light, illuminating our escape path. Dylan keeps his hand locked with mine, supporting me when my legs threaten to give out.
