Page 38 of Fat Betrayed Mate
"There's an old ranger station about a mile northeast," I say, remembering childhood explorations with my mother, and later with Thomas himself. "Abandoned, but it might have supplies."
Thomas nods, wincing as he tries to pull on his jacket. I help him dress, hyperaware of the warmth of his skin and the way his muscles flex under my hands. Even injured and bleeding, he affects me in ways I don't want to acknowledge.
"Can you walk?" I ask.
"I can walk." He proves it by standing, though I see the way he favors his left side. "Let's go."
We leave the unconscious hunter cable-tied to a tree with a note explaining he was found trespassing and will be turnedover to authorities. It's a mercy he probably doesn't deserve, but killing humans brings complications none of us need.
The trek to the ranger station takes longer than expected, with frequent stops for me to check Thomas's wound and for him to catch his breath. The bleeding has slowed but not stopped, and his face grows progressively paler as we walk.
"Almost there," I promise as we crest a small rise, and the weathered building comes into view.
The ranger station is exactly as I remember it—a single-room cabin with a stone fireplace and windows that still have most of their glass. The door hangs open on rusted hinges, and the interior smells of dust and old wood, but it's shelter.
"Sit," I order, guiding Thomas to a bench near the window. "Let me look at that."
He doesn't argue, which tells me more about his condition than words would. I've never seen Thomas Ennes submit to being fussed over, but right now, he's letting me peel away his blood-soaked shirt without protest.
The wound is a clean furrow across the top of his shoulder, maybe four inches long and deep enough to need stitches. It's bleeding steadily but not arterially—painful and messy but not life-threatening.
"You're lucky," I tell him, rummaging through the station's ancient first aid kit. "A few inches lower, and this would have been a lot worse."
"Feels lucky," he mutters, hissing as I clean the wound with antiseptic wipes.
The intimacy of tending his injury hits me unexpectedly—the warmth of his skin under my hands, the way he trusts me to care for him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing as I work.It's been years since I've touched him like this, years since he's let me close enough to offer comfort.
"Hold still," I murmur, applying butterfly bandages to pull the edges of the wound together. "This might scar."
"Won't be the first one."
I glance up at his face, noting the faint lines around his eyes that weren't there six years ago, the small scar on his jaw that's new to me. "Dangerous line of work you've chosen."
"Someone has to do it." His voice is quiet, thoughtful. "Someone has to stand between the pack and the things that want to hurt us."
The echo of his words from the lake makes my hands still against his shoulder. "Is that what you think you're doing? Standing between us and danger?"
"Among other things."
I finish bandaging the wound in silence, hyperaware of the way his eyes follow my movements. When I'm done, I should step away, put distance between us, rebuild the walls that keep getting knocked down every time we're alone together.
Instead, I stay where I am, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
"Better?" I ask.
"Much." His voice has dropped to that low register that used to make my knees weak. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me. You got hurt protecting me."
"I got hurt protecting us. There's a difference."
The distinction matters, though I'm not sure why. Maybe because 'us' implies something beyond duty, something personal and complicated and dangerous to think about.
"Fiona." He says my name like a prayer, his hands coming up to cover mine where they rest on his chest. "Can I ask you something?"
I should say no. Should pull away and insist we radio for pickup and pretend this moment of quiet intimacy never happened. Instead, I nod.
"What was it like? Those six years. Where did you go after..."
