Page 10 of Fat Sold Mate (Silvercreek Lottery Mates #3)
Morning light filters through dusty windows, casting pale rectangles across the cabin floor. I've been awake for hours, staring at the wooden ceiling, counting knots in the timber to avoid thinking about the man on the other side of the door. About the invisible tether binding us together.
Sleep came fitfully, dreams tangled with memories of blood and binding words. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the bond pulse, insistent and hungry. Even now, with a closed door between us, I sense James's presence like a low-frequency hum beneath my skin.
The floorboards creak outside the bedroom. James is awake too, moving quietly in the main room. I catch the scent of coffee drifting under the door, rich and tempting despite everything.
Eventually, hunger and the need for caffeine drive me from my sanctuary. I square my shoulders, smooth down the borrowed t-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, and push open the door.
James stands at the small kitchenette, his back to me as he stirs something in a pot.
He's found clothes somewhere—probably Thomas's forgotten hunting gear—worn jeans and a flannel shirt that stretches across his shoulders.
His dark hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
“Morning,” he says without turning, and I wonder if he sensed my presence through the bond or simply heard the door open.
“Is there coffee?” My voice comes out hoarse from disuse and unshed tears.
He nods toward a chipped mug on the counter. “Milk's powdered. Sugar's in the jar.”
I take the coffee black, needing its bitter strength. The first sip burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain, the grounding reality of it.
“Oatmeal,” James says, nodding toward the pot. “It's all I could find that wasn't canned meat or beans.”
“I'm not hungry.” The lie tastes sour, but accepting food from him feels too much like accepting our situation.
James sighs, running a hand through his hair—a gesture I recognize from before, from those weeks after the League attack when something was growing between us. Before I overheard his mockery. Before everything fell apart.
“You need to eat,” he says, not looking at me. “We need to be ready to move if necessary.”
“Move where?” I ask, cradling the mug between my palms, letting its heat seep into my bones. “Back to Silvercreek?”
“Not yet.” He dishes out oatmeal into two bowls, placing one in front of me despite my protest. “Nic advised we stay away for a few days.”
I set down my coffee more forcefully than necessary, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “So, we just hide here while the Cheslem pack regroups? While they potentially threaten our home?”
“ Our home?” James raises an eyebrow. “The one you were running from when they caught you?”
The jab lands precisely, and I feel heat rising in my cheeks. “That was different.”
“Was it?” He sits across from me, his amber eyes—so like mine, like all witch-born—searching my face. “You were willing to abandon Silvercreek completely two days ago.”
“To get away from you,” I snap, the words escaping before I can stop them.
James flinches slightly, the first crack in his controlled facade. Through our bond, I feel a flash of something—hurt? anger?—before he walls it off.
“Eat your breakfast,” he says, his voice deliberately neutral. “We need to discuss our options.”
I push the bowl away. “Our options are simple. We go back.”
“It's not safe.”
“According to who? Nic?” I challenge. “The same Nic who's spent his entire life in Silvercreek, who has every reason to be overprotective?”
James sets down his spoon with careful precision. “Nic is the Alpha. He knows what he's talking about.”
“Or maybe he's being cautious at the expense of what's right,” I counter. “The pack needs everyone right now, especially with the Cheslems testing boundaries. You're third in command, James. Your place is there.”
“And yours isn't?” Something flashes in his eyes—too quick to interpret.
I look away, unable to hold his gaze. “I'm not essential personnel.”
“The Cheslems disagree.” James pushes his own bowl aside, leaning forward. “They’d happily kidnap and ransom you again. Anything to hurt the pack.”
“As leverage,” I say bitterly. “As a pawn.”
“I’m not stupid,” James snaps. “You only want me distracted and back in Silvercreek so you can run again.”
He’s half-right. A childish part of me wishes things could just go back to how they were before the lottery even started. But they can’t. I know that.
“They need you,” I say. “And since the bond was forced—there could be a way to break it, some law, or… or something.”
“Is that really what you want?” He sounds genuinely surprised, which only fuels my anger.
“Of course it’s what I want!” I push away from the table, needing distance from his scrutiny. “I never wanted to be forced to be your mate in the first place—at least now there might be some way out of it—”
“There isn’t, I know those laws—”
“I can at least try!” I find myself shouting. “I can try to get away from you!”
James stands too, his frustration pulsing through the bond like static electricity. “That's not fair.”
“None of this is fair!” My voice rises despite my efforts to maintain control. “None of this is what either of us wanted. But you got the last call. You got us here. You took my choice away, don’t talk to me about fairness—”
“So you think running into danger will fix it? You think it’ll give you your choice back?” James shakes his head. “That's not bravery, Ruby. That's recklessness.”
“It's a responsibility,” I insist. “To the pack. To Luna and Fiona. To everyone we care about.”
“Don’t act like you care about Silvercreek—”
“I care about Luna,” I insist, because it’s true. “I want her to be safe, and Fiona, and—and Maggie,” I finish pathetically, because she’s the only other friend I have there.
James doesn’t soften to this. He gestures between us. “Like it or not, we're bonded now. What happens to one happens to both.”
The reminder sends a cold shiver down my spine. “All the more reason to face this together, with our pack behind us.”
James opens his mouth to argue further when his phone buzzes on the counter. He grabs it, brow furrowing as he reads the message.
“What?” I ask, an inexplicable dread settling in my stomach. “What is it?”
He looks up, all color drained from his face. “It's Nic. The pack borders have been compromised at three points. They're already evacuating elderly and young shifters. He says it's not safe to return for the foreseeable future.”
My legs suddenly go weak, and I sink back into my chair. “Let me see.”
James hands me the phone, his fingers brushing mine briefly. The contact sends a jolt through the bond, but I ignore it, focusing on the text message:
BORDERS COMPROMISED 3 POINTS. EVACUATION UNDERWAY FOR VULNERABLE PACK MEMBERS. LUNA IS WORKING ON THE WARDS, BUT CHESLEM'S MAGIC IS STRONGER THAN ANTICIPATED. DO NOT RETURN. REPEAT: DO NOT RETURN. WILL UPDATE WHEN SAFE. STAY HIDDEN.
“This can't be happening,” I whisper, reading the message twice more. “Not again. Not after the League attack.”
“Check your phone,” James suggests, his voice tight with controlled fear. “See if Luna's reached out.”
I fumble for my phone, still in the pocket of my jeans from yesterday. The screen remains stubbornly empty—no signal this far into the mountains.
“Nothing,” I say, frustration mounting. “I can't reach anyone.”
James takes his phone back, typing rapidly. “I'm asking for more details.”
We wait in tense silence, but no response comes. James tries calling, the phone pressed to his ear as he paces the small confines of the cabin.
“Voicemail,” he reports grimly. “Network's probably overwhelmed with everyone trying to coordinate evacuation.”
The word hangs heavy between us. Evacuation. Silvercreek, emptying of its most vulnerable members, while those who can fight stay behind to defend territory that's been ours for generations.
“We have to go back,” I say, certainty solidifying in my chest. “They need us, James. All hands on deck.”
“Did you not read the message?” He gestures at his phone. “Nic explicitly said not to return.”
“You’re his head of security, his enforcer,” I argue. “There’s a reason Petra and the others wanted to kill you, they know you’d get in the way—”
“That won't matter if we get ourselves killed trying to get back!”
Our argument grows heated again, circling the same points with increasing frustration. The bond between us amplifies everything, my anger feeding his, his fear bleeding into my consciousness until I can't separate my emotions from his.
The argument might have continued indefinitely if not for the sudden change in James's posture. He freezes mid-sentence, head tilting slightly, nostrils flaring.
“What?” I ask, instinctively lowering my voice.
“Wolves,” he whispers, moving to the window with silent grace. “Not ours.”
Cold fear washes through me, dousing the anger of moments before. “Cheslem?”
He nods once, eyes scanning the tree line. “At least three. Maybe more.”
“How did they find us?”
“Doesn't matter now.” James moves with sudden purpose, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. “We need to go. Now. The Jeep's in the garage behind the cabin.”
I don't argue, grabbing my own meager possessions—jeans, boots, the borrowed t-shirt I'm still wearing. There's no time for anything else.
We're halfway to the back door when the front windows explode inward, showering the room with glass. A massive dark shape hurtles through the opening—a wolf, but wrong somehow, its fur matted with an oily substance that gleams unnaturally in the morning light.
James shifts instantly, clothes tearing as his human form gives way to russet fur and gleaming teeth. He meets the corrupted wolf mid-lunge, the impact sending both crashing into the kitchenette.
“Run!” he shouts mentally through our bond—the first time he's used this aspect of our connection.