Page 21 of Fat Betrayed Mate
"The rules of the Trial of Synchronicity are simple," Victoria announces. "James has a thirty-minute head start. Track and capture him before sunset. You must work together—individual success means nothing."
James grins. "Try to make it interesting. I haven't had a good chase in months."
"Don't get cocky," Thomas warns, but there's a fondness in his voice that twists something uncomfortable in my stomach. Their easy camaraderie feels like a door slammed in my face.
Victoria checks her pocket watch. "James, you may begin."
He disappears between the trees within seconds. The officials retreat, leaving Thomas and me alone.
"He'll head northeast initially," Thomas says, shouldering his pack. "But he'll try to throw us off with false trails."
I nod, trying to look confident. Pack hunts were never my strength, and six years of city living haven't helped. I haven’t been on a pack hunt in years, since I was twenty and living in Silvercreek. Being packless and constantly on the move meant I’d never formed the sorts of ties you need to have with a shifter community to go on their hunts, to run and track with them.
We set off, following James's obvious path—broken twigs, disturbed earth, lingering scent. Too easy.
"He's making this simple on purpose," Thomas mutters, crouching beside a boot print. "He wants us to follow."
"Into a trap?"
"Not sure. I don’t think he’s taking it seriously.” He stands, scanning ahead. "Not that he does anything, really. This way."
We veer left, away from the obvious trail. The forest becomes challenging immediately—thick undergrowth catching at my jacket, steep slopes that burn my thighs. I grit my teeth and match Thomas's pace.
"There." He points to a broken branch. "Twenty minutes ago."
I study the fresh break, trying to see what he sees. "How can you tell?"
"Scent degradation." He glances at me. "You'll pick it up."
The casual assumption that we have a future rankles, but I keep quiet.
We track steadily for an hour, following increasingly subtle signs. Thomas moves like he was born here, reading traces I can barely detect. Despite everything between us, I can't deny his skill—or the way my body falls into rhythm with his without conscious thought.
"We need to shift," he says at a rocky creek bed where the trail vanishes. "His scent's too faded."
My stomach clenches, but there's no choice. The shift comes easier than it has in months, my wolf rising eagerly. The world explodes into scent and sound—James's trail suddenly bright, the forest symphony playing in forgotten frequencies.
Thomas's wolf appears beside me, golden-brown coat gleaming. He's larger than I remembered, more imposing. I can see the way he’s taking me in, the dark wolf he once ran the woods with under the cover of night. For a heartbeat, we just look at each other, and I swear I see recognition in his amber eyes—not just of me, but of us.
Then he turns upstream, and I follow.
In wolf form, our coordination becomes magical. We move like choreography, splitting to cover ground, circling back to compare findings, communicating with glances that need no words. My wolf remembers his, remembers how they fit together.
We shift back on a ridge overlooking a narrow valley. Thomas studies the terrain while I catch my breath, hyperaware of his proximity.
"He's down there, or was not long ago." He points to a cluster of boulders near the valley floor, then up above our heads. "See the ravens? Something disturbed them."
I make out the dark shapes wheeling overhead. "Could be anything."
"James always liked that spot. Good sight lines, multiple escape routes." Thomas starts down the slope. "We'll flank him."
"I'll take the west—"
"No." The word comes sharp. "I should take the longer route. I know his patterns better."
The implication stings—that I'm the weak link. But he's not wrong.
We split up, circling from opposite directions. My heart pounds as I pick through the underbrush, every snapped twig thunderous. Thomas catches my eye across the clearing and gestures—three fingers, then points toward the largest boulder.
