Page 14 of Fat Sold Mate (Silvercreek Lottery Mates #3)

Dusk settles over the forest like an exhale, the day's heat dissolving into purple twilight as I struggle with the rusted lock of the abandoned ranger station.

Days of running, of makeshift shelters and constant vigilance, have left my nerves frayed and my patience thin.

The metal gives suddenly beneath my hairpin, the door swinging inward with a groan that echoes my own exhaustion.

“Finally,” I mutter, stepping into the musty darkness of what will be our fourth temporary sanctuary in as many days.

Behind me, James surveys our surroundings one last time before following, his tall frame silhouetted against the dying light. The bond between us pulses with his wariness, his constant vigilance—feelings I can no longer completely separate from my own.

“It'll do,” he says, securing the door behind us. “Better than that hunting blind last night.”

I don't respond, busy taking stock of our new shelter. The ranger station is small but sturdy—a single room with dust-covered furniture, a wood stove, and windows on all sides that make it both defensible and dangerous. Perfect for watching for threats, terrible for hiding from them.

“We're further from Silvercreek than I've ever been,” I say, moving to the window that faces east, toward the only home I've ever known. “There’s a state line between us now.”

James sets down his pack, rolling his shoulder where the corrupted wolf's bite is still healing. “Me too,” he admits. “Never had reason to venture this far.”

The unspoken reality hangs between us—that we might never make it back, that Silvercreek might not even exist as we knew it if the Cheslem pack succeeds. That we are, for all intents and purposes, alone in the world except for each other.

And that's the problem, isn't it? The being alone together part.

The bond hums between us, stronger each day, demanding acknowledgment we refuse to give.

I move away from the window, putting distance between us that does nothing to lessen the awareness crackling like static whenever we're in the same room.

“I'll check for supplies,” I say, needing occupation. “Maybe the rangers left something useful.”

James nods, already setting up our usual defensive measures—makeshift alarms near doors and windows, escape routes identified and cleared. We've fallen into routines over these days of flight, working together with an efficiency that would be satisfying under any other circumstances.

I rummage through the cabinets, finding a few useful items—matches, a first aid kit with actual bandages rather than the scraps we've been using, and a couple of canned goods that are well past their expiration date but still edible in our desperate situation.

“Jackpot,” James announces from a small closet. “Kerosene lamp. And it's still got fuel.”

Small victories. They're all we have right now.

Night falls completely as we settle into the space, the lamp casting warm light and long shadows across the dusty floor.

James heats water on the wood stove for our meager dinner—instant soup packets salvaged from a vending machine at an abandoned visitor center yesterday.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, my mother's grimoire open on my lap.

The leather-bound book is worn smooth with age and use, the pages fragile and smelling of herbs and candle wax.

I've been carrying it since my panicked flight from Silvercreek, unable to leave behind this last connection to my mother.

Now, with night closing in and danger ever-present, I turn to it for desperate, unlikely solutions.

“A concealment spell,” I murmur, scanning the familiar incantation. “If I could just make it work, we might be able to hide our scent, make it harder for them to track us.”

James glances over, skepticism clear in the set of his shoulders. “You've never been able to make those work before.”

The casual dismissal stings more than it should.

“I've never been this desperate before,” I counter. “And the bond... it might help channel energy. That's how it works for Luna and Nic—he made her magic stronger.”

He hands me a mug of soup without comment, but I feel his doubt through our connection. It's like a cold draft, seeping into my determination, making me question myself as I've done my entire life.

I set the soup aside untouched and gather what I need for the spell—a pinch of dried rosemary from my pocket, salvaged from the spice rack at the hunting cabin days ago.

A thread from my shirt. A drop of water.

Simple components for a simple spell that should, theoretically, be within my limited capabilities.

James watches silently as I arrange these items in the pattern specified in the grimoire, his amber eyes reflecting the lamplight.

I try to ignore his presence, to focus only on the energy I'm attempting to gather, but the bond makes that impossible.

I feel his every shift, his every breath, his skepticism, and—worse—his pity.

I close my eyes, whispering the words my mother taught me before she died. Words that never quite worked for me the way they did for her, that never flowed with the power Luna seems to access so effortlessly. Words that should be my birthright but have always remained just out of reach.

Nothing happens.

I try again, my voice stronger, focusing on the mental image of our scents being masked, of the corrupted wolves losing our trail. Still nothing—not even the faintest stirring of magical energy.

“Dammit!” I slam the grimoire shut, frustration burning in my throat. “It should work. It's the simplest spell in the book.”

James sighs, the sound grating against my already raw nerves. “Maybe we should focus on practical solutions instead.”

“This is practical,” I snap. “If it worked, we'd be safer.”

“But it doesn't work,” he says, his patience clearly wearing thin. “It never has, Ruby. You've been trying these spells since we were kids, and—”

“And what?” I challenge, rising to my feet, the grimoire clutched against my chest like a shield. “Go ahead, say it. I'm a failure. A disappointment. Not a real witch, not a real wolf. Just the pack reject you got stuck with.”

He stands too, frustration rolling off him in waves that crash against our bond. “That's not what I said.”

“It's what you meant.” The words taste bitter, all the hurt of years of exclusion bubbling to the surface. “It's what everyone in Silvercreek has always meant. Not good enough, not strong enough, not wolf enough.”

“This isn't about Silvercreek,” James counters, his voice tight with controlled anger. “This is about survival. Real solutions, not wishful thinking. You can’t seriously still be caught up on some kids being mean when we were little, Ruby.”

The dismissal is so casual, so complete, that something snaps inside me.

“You would know all about wishful thinking, wouldn't you? Pretending you're not witch-born, too, denying half your heritage so you could fit in with the pack alphas. Some of us weren’t lucky enough to be born with the right half of our parents’ DNA.”

His eyes flash, a warning I ignore.

“At least I had the courage to be who I am,” I continue, unable to stop the torrent of words now that they've started.

“You and Luna both had the same mother, the same witch blood. But she embraced it while you ran from it. You let them bully her—bully me —for years because you were too much of a coward to admit you came from the same place.”

“That's not fair,” he growls, taking a step toward me. “I protected Luna—”

“When it was convenient,” I cut in. “When it didn't threaten your precious status. You never stood up for me.”

“I barely knew you then!”

“You knew exactly who I was! The witch-born girl with no shift who everyone thought was a burden on the pack. You walked right past me a hundred times while your friends made my life hell.”

James runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I've come to recognize. “We were kids, Ruby. And I've apologized for that—”

“No,” I interrupt, “you haven't. Not once. You just decided I should forgive you because it's convenient now that we're stuck together.”

The bond between us vibrates with tension, with anger and hurt, and things neither of us wants to name.

It would be easier if it were just antagonism, but beneath the surface, there's something else.

A pull, an awareness that makes every argument feel like foreplay to something we're both resisting.

“You think I wanted this?” James gestures sharply between us. “To be bonded to someone who clearly hates me?”

“I don't hate you,” I say, the admission dragged from somewhere deep and honest. “That's the problem.”

The words hang in the air between us, dangerous and exposed. For a moment, something shifts in James's expression—surprise, maybe, or a vulnerability that matches my own.

But before he can respond, a crash from outside shatters the moment. We both freeze, instincts immediately on alert. James moves to the window in one fluid motion, his body tense as he peers into the darkness.

“Movement,” he whispers. “Northeast corner.”

I join him, keeping to the shadows as I try to discern what he sees with his superior shifter vision. At first, I see nothing but darkness and the faint outline of trees swaying in the night breeze. Then—a flash of movement, a stumbling figure breaking from the treeline.

“Cheslem?” I ask, my earlier anger replaced by cold fear.

James inhales deeply, testing the air. “Yes. But... different. Not corrupted, or not fully. Just one.”

The figure staggers toward the ranger station, clearly injured. As they draw closer, the moonlight reveals a young woman, no older than twenty, her clothes torn and bloodied, her face pale with exhaustion and pain.

“She's hurt,” I say, already moving toward the door.

James catches my arm, his grip gentle but firm. “It could be a trap.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Look at her, James. She can barely stand.”

Through our bond, I feel his internal struggle—the protective instinct warring with strategic caution. Finally, he nods, releasing my arm. “Be careful. I'll cover you.”

I slip outside, moving cautiously toward the young woman. Up close, her injuries are worse than I thought—a deep gash across her shoulder, bruises mottling her visible skin, and a haunted look in her eyes that speaks of horrors witnessed rather than just injuries sustained.

“Help,” she manages, her voice barely audible. “Please.”

She collapses before I can reach her, crumpling to the ground like a marionette with cut strings. I rush forward, kneeling beside her as James approaches more cautiously, his stance ready to shift at the first sign of threat.

“She needs help,” I say, checking her pulse—rapid but present. “We need to get her inside.”

James hesitates only briefly before lifting the unconscious woman with careful strength.

Together, we bring her into the ranger station, laying her on the narrow cot against the wall.

In the lamplight, her features become clearer—delicate but strong, with a stubborn set to her jaw even in unconsciousness.

She's beautiful in a feral way, her dark hair matted with blood and dirt.

“Cheslem, definitely,” James confirms, his nostrils flaring as he catches her scent. “But young. And not fully corrupted.”

I grab the first aid kit, already assessing the visible wounds. “Hand me the water. And the bandages.”

As I clean the gash on her shoulder, the young woman stirs, her eyes fluttering open—amber, like mine, like James's. Witch-born eyes in a wolf's face.

“Where—” she begins, tensing as she registers our presence.

“You're safe,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “We're not going to hurt you.”

“Silvercreek,” she whispers, her gaze darting between us. “You're from Silvercreek. I can smell it.”

James steps closer, his posture deliberately non-threatening despite his wariness. “And you're Cheslem. Why are you running from your own pack?”

The young woman struggles to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at her wound.

“My name is Sera,” she says, her voice stronger now. “And I'm running because they're monsters.”

The words fall heavy between us. I have no idea what to say to them. All of this fighting with James, and suddenly, I’m out of words.

Her revelation hangs in the air like smoke, even as she begins to lose consciousness, choking and ominous. Before either of us can respond, Sera's eyes roll back, her grip on my wrist going slack as unconsciousness claims her once more.