Page 8 of Fat Sold Mate (Silvercreek Lottery Mates #3)

Blood. That's what it comes down to in the end. Not love or choice or compatibility—just blood and ancient words I never consented to speak.

I stand rigid in the center of the dilapidated cabin, my pulse hammering against my throat as Petra produces a knife from her boot.

Not a ceremonial blade or anything resembling ritual—just a hunting knife, utilitarian and cruel, its edge glinting in the dusty morning light filtering through cracked windows.

“Traditionally,” she explains with that terrible smile that never reaches her eyes, “this would be performed by pack Elders with witnesses and celebration.”

“How fortunate we can skip the formalities,” James says beside me, his voice flat, controlled.

My skin crawls at how easily he embraces this charade. How calmly he plays along with my purchase, my humiliation.

Petra holds the knife up, inspecting the blade with exaggerated care. “The blood bond is simple but binding. It creates an instant connection between mates—even,” she glances at me with malicious amusement, “reluctant ones.”

“Get on with it,” James says, his impatience barely contained.

“Eager, aren't we?” Petra laughs. “Very well.”

Verne and Damon position themselves on either side of us, silent sentinels ensuring we don't attempt escape. As if I could run now, with my ankle throbbing from my earlier capture and my body aching from their rough handling.

“Your payment first,” Petra says, extending her hand.

James produces a phone, his fingers moving across the screen with calm precision. “Wire transfer. The account information you provided.”

She watches carefully as he completes the transaction, then nods to Verne, who checks his own phone and confirms receipt.

Just like that, I've been sold. Fifty thousand dollars for a defective witch who can't shift. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but the sound might turn into something darker, something I can't control.

“Now the binding,” Petra says, stepping forward.

She takes my hand first, her grip painfully tight as she turns my palm upward. I try to pull away, a reflexive rejection, but Verne's massive hand clamps down on my shoulder, holding me in place.

“This will hurt,” Petra tells me, not bothering to hide her enjoyment. “Consider it your introduction to Cheslem hospitality.”

Before I can respond, she drags the knife across my palm, deeper than necessary. Pain flares hot and immediate as blood wells to the surface, trickling between my fingers and dripping to the rough wooden floor.

I refuse to flinch. Refuse to give her the satisfaction.

She turns to James next, who offers his hand without resistance. The knife slices across his palm with the same unnecessary brutality, but his expression doesn't change. Dark red blood beads along the cut, a mirror to my own wound.

“Now,” Petra says, taking our bleeding hands and pressing them together. “Repeat after me, enforcer: 'Blood to blood, I claim this mate as mine.'“

James's eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering in their amber depths. His fingers curl around mine, warm and strong despite the slickness of our mingled blood.

“Blood to blood,” he repeats, his voice low but clear, “I claim this mate as mine.”

The words hang in the air between us, weighted with finality. Each syllable is a stone in the wall being constructed around my future, my choices, my freedom.

“And now you, witch,” Petra says, turning to me.

I press my lips together, a final rebellion. Verne's fingers dig into my shoulder, a threatening reminder of my position.

“Say it,” James rumbles, and it’s almost a growl. I wish I could melt into the floor. I wish I could evaporate away and disappear.

It's no choice at all, and we all know it. I meet James's gaze, letting him see the fury and betrayal burning behind my compliance.

“Blood to blood,” I say, the words bitter ash on my tongue, “I claim this mate as mine.”

Something shifts between us immediately—a strange heat spreading from our joined hands up my arm and through my body.

The sensation isn't physical, not exactly.

It's more like awareness, a new consciousness overlapping my own.

I can feel James's presence, a shadow at the edge of my mind, foreign yet unmistakable.

The bond. It's actually working.

“It is done,” Petra declares, releasing our hands. “By the old laws and the new, you are bonded mates.”

James pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping it around my bleeding palm before binding his own cut. The gesture should be tender, but it feels mechanical, impersonal. Just another transaction in this business arrangement masquerading as marriage.

“You have what you wanted,” he says to Petra, positioning himself slightly in front of me. “We're leaving now.”

Petra exchanges glances with Verne and Damon, something passing between them that sends ice through my veins.

“About that,” she says, her smile widening. “There's been a slight change of plans.”

“We had a deal,” James says, tension radiating from his rigid shoulders.

“And you've fulfilled your part beautifully,” Petra agrees. “Payment received, bond completed. But I never actually promised to let you leave.”

Of course. I almost laugh at my own naivety. Did we really expect these monsters to honor their word?

“Think of the possibilities,” Petra continues, circling us like a shark scenting blood. “Not just the witch outcast, but Silvercreek's third-in-command. What might your Alpha give to have you both returned safely?”

“So, this was always your plan,” James says, his voice dangerously calm. “The money was just a bonus.”

“Business is business,” Petra shrugs. “And you've made this so much more valuable by bonding with her. Now we have leverage against the entire pack. After all, what happens to one mate happens to the other, doesn't it?”

Through our new bond, I feel James's fury building like a gathering storm. It crashes against my consciousness, separate from my own emotions, yet impossible to ignore.

“I wouldn't do this if I were you,” he warns quietly.

Petra laughs. “And why is that? You're outnumbered, enforcer. Your mate can't shift. You've walked into our territory alone, with no backup. I'd say we have all the advantages.”

What happens next unfolds so rapidly that I can barely track the movements. James lunges forward, his body shifting mid-motion in a blur of teeth and fur. His wolf form—massive, russet-colored, terrifying in its controlled rage—tears into Damon before the Cheslem shifter can react.

Verne shifts a heartbeat later, his enormous black wolf charging James. They collide in a frenzy of snarls and snapping jaws, furniture splintering beneath their weight.

Petra turns to me, eyes narrowing. “You're not going anywhere, witch.”

I back away, searching frantically for a weapon. My fingers close around a broken chair leg just as she shifts, her sleek gray wolf form slinking toward me with deadly intent.

The fighting wolves crash against the wall, their combined weight cracking the aged timber. Dust rains from the ceiling as the cabin groans in protest.

I swing the chair leg as Petra lunges, catching her across the muzzle. She yelps in pain and surprise, giving me precious seconds to scramble backward.

James's wolf disengages from Verne long enough to place himself between me and Petra. Blood matts his fur in several places, but his stance remains strong, unwavering. Through our new bond, I feel his singular focus: to protect me.

The absurdity of it all—that this man who purchased me like property now fights to protect me—almost overwhelms me. But there's no time for philosophical crises when death circles on four legs.

An agonized howl cuts through the chaos as James's teeth find Damon's throat. The smaller wolf collapses, not dead but severely wounded. Verne charges again, but James is faster, more skilled. They clash in another flurry of teeth and claws, a deadly ballet of predatory grace.

I edge toward the door, chair leg still clutched in white-knuckled fingers. Petra watches me, calculating, waiting for her opening.

Something crashes through the window—a tree branch, dislodged by the violent struggle inside. The distraction is minimal but enough. I bolt for the door, throwing it open and stumbling into the blinding morning light.

Behind me, snarls and crashes continue, but I feel James's awareness shift to include my escape. Go, he seems to urge through the bond, though no actual words pass between us. Run.

I hesitate for only a second before racing toward the tree line. My body protests, injuries screaming with each step, but survival drowns out the pain.

The sounds of fighting fade slightly, then stop altogether. Footsteps pound behind me—human footsteps, not wolf. I risk a glance back to see James running after me, shirt torn, blood streaking his skin, but moving with determined speed.

“Keep going,” he calls. “They have a truck.”

I follow his direction without question, instinct overriding the complicated emotions I can't process now. Through underbrush and between pines, we run until a dirt access road appears. Parked haphazardly beside it sits an old pickup truck, dusty and dented.

James reaches it first, yanking open the driver's door. “Get in!”

I slide into the passenger seat as he jumps behind the wheel. The engine roars to life with a turn of keys left in the ignition—careless hunters or forest service, I don't know or care.

The truck lurches forward, tires spinning on loose gravel before finding purchase. We careen down the narrow road, branches scraping the sides like desperate fingers trying to hold us back.

“Are they following?” I ask, the first words I've spoken since the ritual.

James checks the rearview mirror. “Not yet. But they will.”

“You didn’t kill them?” I don't know why I ask. Don't know why I care.

“No.” His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. “Hurt them badly enough to buy us time.”

The truck bounces violently as we hit a pothole, pain lancing through my bruised ribs. I bite back a gasp, but James glances over sharply.

“You're hurt.”

“I'm fine,” I lie, turning to stare out the window at the passing forest.

We drive in silence after that, the truck straining up mountain roads and around blind curves. The sun climbs higher, casting dappled shadows through the canopy above. I have no idea where we are, where we're going. All I know is we're moving away from Silvercreek, not toward it.

“We can't go back yet,” James says, answering my unspoken question. “The only road from here leads north, away from pack territory. We need to circle around, make sure we aren't followed.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving room for the reality of what's happened to sink in.

I've been sold. Purchased. Bonded against my will to a man who sees me as an obligation, a responsibility.

The bond pulses between us, a constant reminder of what's been done. I can feel James's presence in my mind—not thoughts or emotions, exactly, but awareness. An echo of his existence is tied to mine.

My mother once told me the mate bond was beautiful, sacred. A sharing of souls between equals who chose each other above all others.

There's nothing beautiful about this. Nothing sacred in coercion.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching trees blur into a green smear as tears threaten. I won't cry. Not here. Not with him so close he could feel it through the bond we never wanted.

“We'll need to find somewhere to stop soon,” James says after miles of silence. “Rest. Check your injuries.”

“Fine,” I say, the word clipped and cold.

He sighs, one hand running through his disheveled hair. “Ruby—”

“Don't.” I cut him off, unable to bear whatever justification or explanation he might offer. “Just... don't.”

The miles stretch between us like the physical manifestation of everything unsaid. The truck labors up another incline, engine protesting but persevering. Just like us—moving forward because there's no other choice, regardless of the strain.

Through the bond, I feel James's frustration, his concern, his uncertainty. I push it away, building mental walls to keep him out of the corners of my mind where grief and humiliation battle for dominance.

Mountains rise around us, ancient and indifferent to human suffering. The road winds deeper into their embrace, carrying us further from everything familiar. Further from home.

But what is home now? Not Silvercreek, where I've always been the outcast. Not my bookshop, which I fled without a backward glance. Not this truck, with a man I'm bound to against my will.

I am adrift, untethered from everything except the unwanted bond that now defines me.

As the sun reaches its zenith, casting harsh light across the dashboard, I close my eyes against its glare. Against reality. Against the man beside me, who saved me and destroyed me in the same breath.

James drives on, steady and determined, as the distance between us grows despite the bond that will never let us truly separate again.