Page 37 of Fat Betrayed Mate
"Whoever this is," I whisper, "they've been here before."
Thomas nods grimly. "Or they've got really good intel on our patrol routes."
The trail leads us steadily northeast, toward the disputed border area where pack lands meet the national forest. It's rough country, full of ravines and rocky outcroppings that provide excellent cover for someone who doesn't want to be seen.
That's when we hear it—the snap of a branch somewhere ahead, too loud and deliberate to be an animal.
Thomas signals for me to stay low as we creep forward, using the massive trunk of an old oak for cover. Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of movement—a figure in camouflage gear moving parallel to our position.
The hunter is alone, carrying what appears to be a military-style rifle and some type of electronic equipment. He's maybe forty yards away, close enough that I can see the focused intensity in his movements as he stops to adjust something on a nearby tree.
Another camera. They're expanding their surveillance network, pushing deeper into our territory.
Thomas motions for me to circle left while he goes right, classic pincer movement. But as I start to move, my foot catches on a hidden root, sending a small shower of pebbles clattering down the slope.
The hunter's head snaps up immediately, his rifle swinging toward the sound. For a frozen moment, we stare at each other across thirty yards of forest—his eyes wide with surprise and something that might be fear.
Then he bolts.
"Stop!" Thomas shouts, breaking cover. "You're on our territory!Stop!"
But the hunter is already crashing through the underbrush, heading for higher ground where the trees thin out. Thomas gives chase immediately, his longer stride eating up the distance, and I follow, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The pursuit becomes a nightmare of sliding scree and grasping branches, the hunter using his head-start to gain elevation while we scramble to keep up. He's in better shape than the group Thomas encountered before, moving with the fluid confidence of someone who spends serious time in the woods.
We're closing the gap when he reaches a rocky outcropping that gives him both cover and a clear line of sight.The first shot cracks through the air like thunder, splintering bark from a tree inches to my left.
"Down!" Thomas roars, tackling me behind a boulder as two more shots follow in quick succession.
"Warning shots," I gasp, tasting dirt and adrenaline. "He's not trying to hit us."
"Yet." Thomas's eyes flash amber, his wolf rising to the surface. "Stay here."
"Thomas, no—"
But he's already moving, stripping off his jacket as he shifts in one fluid motion. One second, he's the man I've been trying not to love for six years; the next, he's two hundred pounds of furious brown wolf charging up the slope toward an armed human.
The hunter's next shot goes wide, panic making him sloppy as Thomas closes the distance with terrifying speed. I hear a shout, then a scream, then the metallic clatter of a rifle hitting stone.
The sounds of the fight are brief but vicious—snarling, cursing, the meaty impact of bodies hitting ground. Then silence.
"Thomas?" I call, fear making my voice crack.
A low whine answers me, pained and distinctly canine. I scramble up the slope, my heart in my throat, and find Thomas shifting back into human form, bleeding, crouched over an unconscious hunter.
"He's alive," Thomas says before I can ask. "Just knocked out."
But blood is streaming down his left shoulder from a deep furrow where a bullet grazed him, and his face is pale with pain or shock.
"You're hurt," I say, dropping to my knees beside him.
"It's nothing. Just a scratch."
"It's not nothing." I strip off my jacket, pressing it against the wound to stem the bleeding. "We need to get you medical attention."
Thomas catches my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. "Not back to Silvercreek. Not yet. This guy was carrying something—likely surveillance equipment or maps. His friends won’t be far away. We need to lay low.”
I want to argue, to insist that his injury takes priority over intelligence gathering. But the rational part of my brain knows he's right. If this hunter doesn't check in soon, others will come searching for them. And we're a long way from the main patrol group.
