Page 34 of Fat Betrayed Mate
"Predators," the leader says. "Been reports of aggressive animals in the area. We're just trying to protect our families."
It's a reasonable cover story, but the equipment tells a different tale. Motion sensors calibrated for human-sized movement, cameras with facial recognition software visible on the displays. This isn't about hunting animals.
"What organization are you with?" I ask.
The men exchange glances. "Just concerned citizens," the leader says finally. "We don't answer to you people."
You people.The phrase hangs in the air like a challenge.
"Names?" I ask, keeping my tone conversational.
"That's not your business," the youngest of the group snaps. He's maybe twenty-five, with the kind of angry energy that comes from having his worldview threatened by things he doesn't understand.
But I notice the way he holds his phone, screen angled slightly toward us like he's recording. When I take a step closer, he hastily shifts position, but not before I catch the glint of the camera lens.
"Actually, it is my business when you're conducting surveillance on private property," I say. "So let's try this again. Who sent you?"
The leader's jaw works like he's chewing over his options. Finally, he jerks his head toward the others. "Pack it up. We're done here."
They move with practiced efficiency, gathering their equipment and melting back into the forest faster than their amateur appearance would suggest. But not before I catch the leader speaking quietly into a radio, his words too low to make out clearly.
When they're gone, I examine the spots where their sensors were placed. The positioning is strategic—designed to monitor the main approaches to our territory. And the fact that they asked for our names and tried to record our faces...
"They're building a database," I tell my team. "Faces, names, movement patterns. This isn't random harassment."
Marcus, one of the younger wolves, kicks at the disturbed earth where a sensor had been mounted. "Think they'll be back?"
"Count on it," I say grimly. "And next time, they'll be better prepared.”
The sun is setting by the time we return to Silvercreek, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful under other circumstances. Now, the approaching darkness feels ominous, full of potential threats and unseen watchers.
I file my report with Nic, emphasizing the organized nature of the surveillance and the hunters' interest in identifying pack members. The implications are troubling—if they're building profiles on individual wolves, it suggests planning for something more targeted than general harassment.
"Double the night patrols," Nic decides. "And I want motion detectors on all the main approaches. If they want to play surveillance games, we'll play better."
It's past nine when I finally leave headquarters, my mind churning with tactical considerations and worst-case scenarios.The pack feels different in the darkness—less like home and more like a fortress under siege. Even the familiar sounds of the evening seem muted, as if the very air is holding its breath.
I should go home, get some sleep, prepare for whatever tomorrow brings. Instead, I find myself walking toward the lake, drawn by restlessness I can't quite name.
The path winds through silver birches that seem to glow in the moonlight, their pale bark almost luminescent against the dark water beyond. It's one of my favorite spots in the territory—peaceful, isolated, perfect for thinking through complicated problems.
I'm not surprised to find I'm not alone.
Fiona stands at the water's edge, her silhouette graceful against the rippling surface. She's changed from her earlier clothes into jeans and a thick sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders in waves that catch the moonlight.
She doesn't turn when I approach, but the slight stiffening of her posture tells me she's aware of my presence.
"Evening," I say, stopping a careful distance away.
"Thomas." Her voice is neutral, revealing nothing.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
"Something like that." She glances over her shoulder briefly, then returns her attention to the water. "Maisie's finally down. Took three stories and a promise that the 'bad people' won't come here."
The casual mention of her daughter sends an unexpected pang through my chest. "She was asking questions?"
"She's f—four. She asks questions about everything." Fiona's tone is carefully light, but I catch the underlying worry. "Today's meeting got her attention."
