Page 82 of Fat Arranged Mate
Gunshots crack behind us, bullets splintering tree trunks inches from our heads. I push through the weakness, drawing strength from Dylan's unwavering presence beside me.
"This way," he gasps, pulling me down a steep embankment.
We splash through a creek, the cold water shocking my system fully awake. Behind us, flashlight beams cut through darkness, voices calling in organized pursuit patterns.
Dylan doesn't let go, not even when I stumble, not even when my breath comes in ragged gasps. We move as one unit now, our previous opposition transformed into perfect synchronicity.
"Almost clear," he encourages as we push through dense underbrush.
The forest opens suddenly into a clearing. Beyond it, the distant sound of conflict breaks the night—shouts, growls, the unmistakable sounds of battle.
Silvercreek. Fighting for its survival.
Chapter 30 - Dylan
We crest the final ridge as morning light spills across Silvercreek territory.
Below us, chaos unfolds—hunters in tactical gear, wolves in partial shifts, the clash of two worlds in violent collision.
My pack is holding their own. Nic stands in half-shift form at the center of the clearing, massive and terrifying, coordinating the defense with silent signals. James flanks his right, bleeding from a shoulder wound but still fighting. Thomas and Connor work in tandem, driving hunters back toward the eastern tree line.
Luna and Ruby stand on elevated ground, hands extended, the air around them shimmering with protective magic that deflects bullets and creates disorienting fog patches around key fighters.
"They knew," Sera whispers beside me, relief evident in her voice. "They were prepared."
Pride swells in my chest. Of course they were. Silvercreek has survived for generations precisely because we never depend on any single defender—not even me.
"Still outnumbered," I note, counting quickly. "At least fifteen hunters remaining."
Sera's hand tightens in mine. "What's our play?"
Not my play. Our play. The shift in language isn't lost on me.
"Circle west," I decide. "Flank their position, cut off retreat routes. You stay behind me."
She snorts softly. "Not likely. I'll go east, you go west. Pincer movement."
I start to protest, then catch the determined set of her jaw. We don't have time to argue, and her tactical assessment is sound.
"Ten minutes," I concede. "Then we meet at the north point."
She nods, squeezing my hand once before releasing it. "Don't die."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
We separate, moving with practiced stealth through underbrush. I circle wide, using tree cover to approach unseen. Three hunters have established a firing position behind fallen logs, providing cover fire for their companions.
I slip behind them, wolf-silent. The first goes down before he registers my presence—a precise strike to the base of his skull. The second manages to turn, eyes widening in recognition.
"You—" he gasps before my fist connects with his throat.
The third fires wildly, missing by inches. I'm on him in a heartbeat, disarming him with a wrenching twist that leaves his wrist shattered.
"Stay down," I growl, voice barely human.
Across the clearing, I spot Sera moving with surprising grace, given her recent condition. She approaches two hunters from behind, medical bag in hand. Whatever she removes from it, she uses with surgical precision—both men collapse instantly.
Tranquilizers, I realize. The healer finding her own path between pacifism and necessity.
