Page 24 of Fat Sold Mate (Silvercreek Lottery Mates #3)

The universe hasn't been content to merely throw us together—it seems determined to force us into every romantic comedy cliché imaginable.

Except there's nothing comedic about this situation. Not when the memory of the cave night still burns on my skin. Not when the bond between us pulses with every heartbeat, a constant reminder of what we are to each other.

What we did to each other.

“You can shower first,” James offers, setting his pack carefully on the small desk wedged into the corner. “I'll check the perimeter.”

“Check the perimeter?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “It's a motel room, not a military encampment.”

He doesn't smile. “Habit.”

I grab my meager toiletries without further comment and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door even though it's a pointless gesture. A locked door wouldn't stop a determined shifter, and besides, the bond between us means there's no real privacy anymore. Not the kind that matters.

The shower is lukewarm at best, the pressure barely enough to rinse shampoo from my hair, but it's still the closest thing to luxury I've experienced in days. I stand under the spray until my fingers wrinkle, postponing the inevitable return to the room—to James—for as long as possible.

When I finally emerge, wrapped in the threadbare motel towel because I forgot to bring clean clothes in my haste to escape, James is standing at the window, peering through the curtains with that hyper-vigilance that never seems to leave him.

“All clear?” I ask, aiming for casual despite the way his eyes track the water droplets sliding down my neck.

“For now,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. He clears his throat, gaze snapping back to my face with visible effort. “I'll, uh—my turn.”

He grabs his own pack and disappears into the bathroom, the door closing perhaps more firmly than necessary. Through our bond, I feel the ripple of his discomfort, his struggle for control that mirrors my own.

I dress quickly in my last clean t-shirt and a pair of shorts that have seen better days, then settle on the edge of the bed with Sera's journal.

The leather-bound book is heavier than it looks, its pages densely filled with cramped handwriting and diagrams that speak of years of research and observation.

I flip to the section I found earlier, the description of the counter-ritual that could potentially cleanse the corruption from the Cheslem wolves. Reading more carefully now, my suspicions are confirmed in black and white:

The purification requires a conduit strong enough to channel the cleansing energy—a mate bond, fully consummated and accepted by both parties. The witch-born must draw power through this connection, amplifying their natural abilities beyond normal limitations.

My stomach twists with a complicated blend of emotions. The cave night—our desperate coming together in grief and need—technically fulfilled this requirement. We are, by blood and magic and now by physical joining, fully bonded mates.

But does he “accept” me? Could he even begin to?

There's the sticking point—it’s the part I’ll never fully believe, the part of his protection and care I’ll never buy into.

The way James has been so careful not to touch me since that night, the guilt I feel pulsing from him through our bond.

.. he clearly regrets what happened between us.

And why wouldn't he? I'm not what he would have chosen—the witch-born outcast who can't even shift, the burden he's been forced to claim as mate.

And then there are his words from months ago, still burning in my memory.

The casual cruelty of his laughter as he described someone—me, it had to be me—as “enormous” and “the fattest thing I've ever seen.” How could I ever tell him that our bond, this connection he never wanted, is now the only hope for saving our pack?

I couldn’t. Of course, I couldn’t. It has to be Luna, I tell myself, ignoring the prickle of unease inside me at this. Luna has more magic in her pinky finger than I do in my whole body. And her mate actually loves her.

The bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam, and James emerges wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants, his chest still damp from the shower. I snap the journal closed, perhaps too quickly.

“Find anything useful?” he asks, toweling his hair dry.

“Still working through it,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “The counter-ritual is... complicated.”

He sits on the opposite edge of the bed, maintaining a careful distance between us. “Complicated how?”

“Magically,” I reply vaguely. “It requires specific components, precise timing. Things we'll need Luna's help to understand fully.”

It's not entirely a lie, but the omission sits heavy on my conscience. James studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he can sense my deception through the bond. If he does, he doesn't call me on it.

“We should sleep,” he says finally. “Long drive tomorrow.”

The prospect of sharing the bed suddenly looms large between us. James hesitates, then pulls back the covers on the side furthest from me.

“I don't bite,” he says, attempting levity that falls flat.

“I seem to recall evidence to the contrary,” I reply before I can stop myself, then feel heat rush to my face as I realize the implication. The cave. The marks his teeth left on my shoulder, my neck.

James goes very still, his expression unreadable. Through the bond, I feel a flash of something dark and hungry before he suppresses it ruthlessly.

“Ruby—” he begins, then stops, apparently at a loss for words.

“Forget I said anything,” I mutter, sliding under the covers on my side of the bed. “I'm exhausted.”

He follows suit, lying rigid beside me, careful to maintain a strip of neutral territory between our bodies. The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of the ancient air conditioner and the occasional passing car outside.

Sleep hovers just out of reach despite my bone-deep weariness.

I'm acutely aware of James beside me—the rhythm of his breathing, the heat radiating from his body, the subtle shift of his weight as he adjusts position.

The bond between us pulses with shared consciousness, neither of us able to fully relax in such proximity.

“Why did you pull away?”

The question comes just as I'm finally drifting toward sleep, James's voice quiet but clear in the darkness. I don't pretend to misunderstand.

“What?”

“Two months ago,” he clarifies. “After the League attack. We were... getting closer. Then suddenly you wouldn't even look at me.” The hurt in his voice sounds genuine, surprising me with its rawness. “What happened?”

I stare at the water stain on the ceiling, heart thudding painfully against my ribs. Of all the conversations to have now, this wasn't one I'd prepared for.

“I overheard you,” I say finally, the words bitter on my tongue. “With your friends. Laughing about… about someone's size.”

About my size. About me.

James shifts beside me, turning to face my profile, though I keep my gaze fixed upward. “What? When?”

“Outside the rebuilding site. The day after we...” I swallow hard, unwilling to name the kiss we'd shared, the first tentative acknowledgment of whatever was growing between us. “I heard you. You were laughing. You—you said some awful stuff, James. And I’m pretty sure it was about me.”

James is silent for a long moment, and I can practically hear him sorting through memories, trying to place the conversation. “Ruby, I don't—”

“Don't deny it,” I interrupt, hurt, making my voice sharper than intended. “I heard you. I wasn't meant to, obviously, but I did.”

“I'm not denying anything,” he says slowly. “I just don't remember ever having that conversation. Especially not about —” He audibly swallows. “Not about you. I don’t think about you… like that. I never have. I swear to you, I don’t remember that.”

The incredulity in his voice stings worse than outright admission would have. I turn away, presenting my back to him.

“Just forget it, James. It doesn't matter now,” I mutter. “If you can’t even remember it, I think that’s worse.”

“The hell it is,” he argues, a hand hovering over my shoulder before withdrawing without making contact. “Ruby, I would never—”

A sound from outside freezes us both—the crunch of gravel under careful footsteps, too deliberate to be a random motel guest. James is immediately alert, shifting to a crouch on the bed, eyes fixed on the window.

“It’s them,” he whispers, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. “At least three of them.”

Terror jolts through me, momentarily displacing all other emotions. “How did they find us?”

“Doesn't matter,” James says grimly, already moving toward our packs. “We need to go. Now.”

I follow his lead, cramming the journal and grimoire into my bag with shaking hands. Through the thin curtains, shadows move across the parking lot—approaching our room with predatory purpose.

“The door—” I begin.

“Too obvious,” James cuts me off, already pushing open the bathroom window. “This way.”

The window is small, barely large enough for his broad shoulders to squeeze through. He goes first, dropping silently to the ground outside, then reaching up to help me through. I pass our packs down, then wriggle through the narrow opening, his hands steadying my descent.

We're just rounding the corner of the building when the sound of splintering wood reaches us—our motel room door is being kicked in.

Without discussion, we break into a run.