Page 26 of Fat Sold Mate (Silvercreek Lottery Mates #3)

Morning arrives with its own brutality, sunlight streaming through the truck's windshield and directly into my eyes.

We'd pulled over sometime around dawn, too exhausted to continue after driving through the night.

Now, with consciousness comes awareness of cramped muscles, of hunger, and most problematically, of James.

He sleeps in the passenger seat, head tipped back against the headrest, one arm flung across his chest where the corruption had spread mere hours ago.

Through our bond, I feel his peaceful dreams, his body's contentment at having been cleansed of dark magic.

But beneath that runs a current of something more problematic—an awareness of me that persists even in sleep.

Last night's ritual changed things. Not just healing James, but altering the very nature of our connection. The bond between us pulses stronger now, more insistent, carrying emotions and sensations I'd rather not acknowledge.

Like the fact that simply watching him sleep makes heat pool low in my belly. Or that when he shifts position, stretching unconsciously in a way that highlights the muscles of his torso, my mouth goes dry with wanting.

This is ridiculous. We're fleeing for our lives, racing toward a pack that might be under siege, and my traitorous body can only think about climbing him like a tree. Again.

James stirs, amber eyes blinking open to find me staring. A flash of heat crosses his face before he schools his expression into something more neutral. Through the bond, though, I feel the spike of awareness, of desire, quickly suppressed.

“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep in a way that does nothing to help my predicament.

“We should get moving,” I reply, turning the key perhaps more aggressively than necessary. “Silvercreek is still hours away.”

James straightens, wincing slightly as he rolls his shoulder—the one that had been bitten. “How are you feeling after the ritual? That was serious magic.”

“Fine,” I lie, ignoring the hollow exhaustion that comes from channeling more power than I'm accustomed to. “It worked, that's what matters.”

His gaze lingers on me, too perceptive by half. “You're a terrible liar, Ruby Mulligan.”

“And you're an infuriating patient, James Morgan,” I counter, pulling back onto the empty highway with perhaps more speed than strictly necessary. “I said I'm fine.”

He doesn't push, but I feel his concern through the bond, warm and unwelcome.

We drive in silence for several miles, the tension between us building with each passing minute.

Every accidental brush of his arm against mine as he reaches for the map sends electricity skating across my skin.

Every shift in his scent as he responds to my proximity registers like a physical touch.

It's maddening. And judging by the rigid set of his shoulders, the carefully measured way he breathes, he's suffering just as much.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter finally, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“What?” James asks, feigning innocence so poorly it would be comical under other circumstances.

“You know what,” I snap, gesturing vaguely between us. “We just need to… we need to move past it.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Move past it,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes,” I insist, though the bond between us pulses with shared awareness that belies my determined tone. “It's just magical backlash. Like I said last night. It’s… magic, being weird. That’s all it is.”

“Right,” he agrees too easily. “Just backlash. Nothing to do with the fact that we've now had sex and—”

“ Once ,” I interrupt, heat flooding my cheeks. “Last night was just a kiss.”

“A kiss,” he echoes with a snort. “Is that what we're calling it?”

“What would you call it?” I challenge, immediately regretting the question.

James turns to look out the window, but not before I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I'd call it a promising start.”

The words send a jolt of heat straight to my core, my body responding with embarrassing eagerness. Through the bond, I feel his immediate awareness of my reaction, his own desire spiking in response.

“Focus on the road, Ruby,” he murmurs, still looking out the window.

“I hate you,” I mutter, pressing the accelerator a little harder.

“No, you don't,” he replies with infuriating confidence.

I refuse to dignify that with a response.

By mid-afternoon, we're both desperate for a break from the confines of the truck cab and each other's proximity. I pull into a state park rest area, parking beside a trailhead that promises a short hike to a scenic overlook.

“Fifteen minutes,” James says, already climbing out of the truck. “We stretch our legs, then keep moving.”

The fresh air is a blessed relief after hours of breathing in each other's scent, being constantly aware of each other's every movement. I wander a few yards down the trail, stretching muscles stiff from driving, trying to ignore the way my body still hums with awareness of James nearby.

I'm examining a patch of wild herbs that might be useful for basic protection spells when footsteps approach—too heavy to be James, who moves with predatory silence even in human form.

A hiker rounds the bend, mid-fifties with a weathered face and friendly eyes. He nods in greeting, slowing his pace.

“Afternoon,” he calls. “Beautiful day for a hike.”

I nod, immediately wary of any stranger in our current situation. “Just stretching our legs. Long drive.”

The man pauses, leaning on his walking stick. “Heading toward Silvercreek?”

My blood turns to ice. “What makes you say that?”

He gestures toward our truck, where James has gone instantly alert at the mention of our pack. “License plate frame. 'Silvercreek Public Library.' My sister's a librarian there. Carolyn Pierce?”

The name is familiar—an older woman who sometimes borrowed books from my shop for her children's reading program. The coincidence seems too perfect to be genuine.

“Small world,” I say carefully.

The man smiles, apparently oblivious to my suspicion. “Sure is. You folks be careful heading that way, though. There's been some trouble.”

James approaches, his stance casual in a way that doesn't fool me for a second. He's ready to shift at the first sign of threat.

“What kind of trouble?” he asks, positioning himself slightly in front of me.

“Some kind of animal attacks,” the hiker says, shaking his head.

“And those anti-shifter nuts are using it as an excuse to stir up trouble again.

Demonstrations outside the town hall, pamphlets about 'the shifter menace.

'“ His disgust is evident. “Load of garbage, if you ask me.

My sister's neighbors are shifters. Nicest people you'd ever meet.”

I exchange a glance with James, surprise and wariness mingling through our bond.

“Thought that League for Humanity group disbanded after their leader was arrested,” James says carefully.

“Edward Wright?” The hiker snorts. “He's in prison, sure, but his ideas didn't die with him. Some local politicians have picked up the banner. Registration requirements, surveillance. Real dystopian stuff.” He adjusts his pack straps.

“Anyway, just thought I'd mention it. You might want to avoid displaying that plate frame for a while.”

With a final nod, he continues down the trail, whistling tunelessly as he disappears around the bend.

“Coincidence?” I ask quietly.

James shakes his head. “I don't believe in those anymore.”

We return to the truck in silence, both processing this new information. The Cheslem threat is immediate and deadly, but human prejudice could prove more insidious in the long run. Silvercreek faces enemies on multiple fronts, it seems.

“We'll need to warn Nic,” James says as we pull back onto the highway. “If anti-shifter sentiment is rising again...”

“One crisis at a time,” I suggest, though anxiety twists in my stomach at the thought of what might await us at home.

By evening, we're both too exhausted to continue safely. James finds a secluded camping spot off a forest service road, far enough from the highway to avoid casual discovery but accessible enough for a quick departure if needed.

We build a small fire, more for light than warmth, in the mild spring evening.

Dinner is whatever snacks remain from our last gas station stop—beef jerky, granola bars, lukewarm bottled water.

It should be miserable, but there's something almost comfortable about the routine we've established over the days of flight.

“Tomorrow,” James says, poking at the fire with a stick. “We should reach Silvercreek by mid-morning if we leave at first light.”

I nod, watching the flames dance rather than meeting his eyes. “Everything will change.”

“Some things already have,” he replies quietly.

The bond between us pulses with a shared understanding of how different we are from the people who left Silvercreek weeks ago. Of how what began as a forced connection has evolved into something neither of us anticipated.

“What happens after?” I ask the question that's been hovering unspoken between us. “When this is over, if we survive...”

James looks up, firelight casting shadows across his face. “After is a luxury we haven't earned yet.”

He's right, of course. Tomorrow brings a reckoning—with the Cheslem pack, with our own people, with the fate of Silvercreek itself. Personal concerns must wait.

But as we settle on opposite sides of the fire for the night, the bond between us hums with possibilities neither of us is brave enough to name. With questions that might never be answered if tomorrow goes badly.

With hope, fragile but persistent, that there might be an after for us to figure out.