Page 33 of Fat Betrayed Mate
She's scared.The realization hits me like a physical blow. Not just generally concerned like the other parents, but genuinely terrified. And given what I know about Edward Wright's involvement with the anti-shifter group, her fear makes perfect sense.
Does she know he’s behind this? Perhaps she’s heard something from him, or knows of his activity in recent years. Perhaps she knows nothing at all. She still doesn't know the real reason I left her all those years ago, after all. And I can't tell her without putting her in even greater danger.
The meeting ends with Nic's assurance that additional security briefings will be scheduled as needed. Pack members file out in small groups, voices low as they discuss the implications of what they've heard.
I want to approach Fiona, to offer some kind of reassurance, but she's already moving toward the exit with Maisie in tow. Her posture screamsstay away, and given how badly I handled things last night, I force myself to respect her boundaries.
Instead, I turn my attention to the immediate crisis, following Nic toward the security office where we can speak more freely.
"How bad is it really?" James asks, catching up with us in the hallway.
Nic glances around to make sure we're alone. "Bad enough. The group has moved beyond demonstrations. They're conducting active surveillance now."
"On what?" James asks.
"Us. Our territories, our routines. They're gathering intelligence." I pull out my phone, showing them photos taken by scouts earlier this morning. "Trail cameras, motion sensors, even what looks like radio frequency monitoring equipment."
James studies the images, his expression darkening. "This isn't random hate. This is organized."
"Gets worse," Nic says grimly. "We've confirmed the group's leadership structure. We still don’t know many names, but we know they’ve got backing from some serious money. Someone wants this to happen.”
My blood runs cold, but I keep my expression neutral. The others don't know about my history with Fiona's father, and revealing it now would only complicate an already dangerous situation.
"What's their endgame?" James asks.
"Unknown. But given their level of preparation, I doubt they're planning to stop at protests and property damage." Nic's jaw tightens. "I want perimeter patrols doubled, and I need volunteers for a reconnaissance mission this afternoon."
"I'll take it," I say immediately.
Nic nods. "Take three others. James, coordinate with the other pack alphas in the region. We need to know if this is isolated to our area or part of something bigger."
We spend the next hour planning patrol routes and communication protocols. It's almost noon when a scout bursts through the security office door, his face flushed from running.
"Northern border," he gasps. "Armed humans setting up some kind of equipment. At least four of them, maybe more."
I'm on my feet before he finishes speaking. "Show me."
***
The northern forest is dense with old-growth pines that provide excellent cover for both surveillance and counter-surveillance. I lead a team of four through the undergrowth, our movements silent despite the urgency driving us forward.
We smell them before we see them—human sweat, gun oil, and the acrid tang of fear-adrenaline. The scent trail leads to a small clearing where four men are setting up what looks like a motion sensor network, their equipment spread across the forest floor in haphazard piles.
These aren't professionals. Their gear is mismatched—hunting rifles, consumer-grade electronics, camouflage that's more fashion than function. But they're armed and clearly hostile, which makes them dangerous regardless of their training level.
I signal my team to spread out, then step into the clearing.
"Afternoon, gentlemen."
They spin toward me, hands moving instinctively toward their weapons. The leader—a heavyset man with a graying beard, not anyone I know by sight—takes a half-step forward, his rifle held at a casual angle that doesn't quite qualify as threatening.
"Private property," he says, his voice carrying the particular brand of aggressive defensiveness that comes from being caught doing something questionable.
"Actually, you're on pack land," I reply calmly. "About a quarter mile past the boundary markers."
"Don't know nothing about pack land," another man mutters, though his nervous glances suggest otherwise.
I study their setup—sensors positioned to monitor animal trails, cameras angled toward our territory. "Mind if I ask what you're hunting?"
