Page 10 of Fat Enemy Mate

The hut. Brief flashes of memory seep back into my mind; I was being carried, and I told him to put me down. I don’t know who he is. My heart begins to race as my mind tries to piece it all together.

I open my eyes, just a fraction. There are huge wooden beams above my head and a large window to my left. It’s dark outside, and I realize that I’m not sure if the sun has just setor if it’s about to rise. There’s a faint hum somewhere nearby that means there’s electricity and a pump, which means I’m somewhere that runs on more than a stove. A far cry from the hut. I allow myself to glance right and see a man in the chair beside the bed.

He’s sitting slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and there’s a mug in his hands. He’s looking at the mug and not me, but I suspect he already knows I’m awake. His hair is dark and a little long, which matches the several days of stubble on his face. His t-shirt barely contains his muscles, and he looks surprisingly relaxed for a situation that feels deadly.

I assess the situation fast: I’m in a cabin I don’t recognize with a man I don’t know—he carried me here. I told him to stop, and it didn’t work. I haven’t had a good look at him yet, but I already know he’s a shifter. Too big for a human male, too dangerous. But this isn’t the rogue camp.

I shift my weight slightly, trying to hide my flinch as the ankle protests. He doesn’t look up but swirls whatever is left in his mug.

“You’re awake,” he says, confirming he already knew. “There’s water on the table by your right hand. The rogues didn’t follow us here. The doors are locked, and the wards are up, and I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I don’t answer, but I look at the glass of water. It looks so appealing, but I can’t move just yet. I still don’t trust him not to move first. I look back at him and find him staring right at me. I get the full impact of his face in a way I wasn’t expecting—piercing green eyes, the dark hair, and a jawline that, I have to admit, whatever else he is, makes him the kind of attractive that gets women into trouble. I stuff that thought down; there are no attractive shifters, I remind myself.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“A cabin that belongs to my pack. We’re a couple of miles deeper into our territory. This was the best of a bunch of bad options with rogues out there.” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “My name's Wilf. I was out running this morning on the ridge when I picked up your scent and the rogues. I took two out, and patrols have been sweeping for the rest. Hopefully, they’ll have them cleared out by morning. I came back out to see what I could find. And I found you.”

That’s a lot more than I was expecting him to give me, and I struggle to know what to say. He seems to understand my struggle and continues.

“I won’t lie, I’m going to need to understand a few things before you go anywhere. And you’re in no state to go anywhere at the moment anyway. But I’m not going to hurt you.” He says.

I finally force myself to a sitting position, suddenly embarrassed by the fact that I’m still wearing my dirty coat and even my hands are covered in dirt. My hand shakes slightly as I reach for the water, but the moment the liquid touches my lips, I nearly sob. It feels so good, and the reaction feels immediate. I swallow the feeling down as I drink before looking back at him, “What is it you want to know?”

“Everything you can tell me,” He says, placing the mug on the side table. “The rogues on you weren’t random; they were hunting. We have history with them—they’re called Cheslem, or what’s left of it, and they’re about as bad as it gets. They were on your trail, and when I took them down, they had some weird talismans around their neck. So I want to know why they were after you, do you know them, and if you know anything about the talismans?”

“And if I don’t know anything?” I ask.

“Then you don’t,” He gives me a small shrug, “but I can’t help you if you don’t let me, and I’m not sure those rogues are in the mood to give up.”

The honesty in his words hit me more than I expected, and I find myself almost relaxing because he’s just voiced what scares me the most. But here I am warm in this bed with a glass of water, and I survived when I’d all but given up. So I can’t give up now, no matter what this man thinks is going to happen.

“I need to get up, get cleaned up,” I say quietly, knowing that I can’t do anything until I’ve tended to these injuries.

“Ok,” he says, standing and moving toward the door.

I push the blanket off slightly, and I’m greeted with the sight of all the dirt that has rubbed off onto the sheets. “I’m s-sorry,” I say.

He shrugs, “Not a problem, figured you wouldn’t appreciate me trying to take things off.”

“Bathroom’s through that door,” he says, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Hot water, it runs off solar, so there’s plenty. Clean clothes and a towel on the side. You’re going to be dizzy, so take it easy. If you start going down, yell out.”

“I won’t be going down, I’ll be fine,” I lie, knowing this is going to be tough.

Something that almost looks like a smile tugs at his lips. “You’re paler than I’ve ever seen. Be ready to go slow and take it easy. I’ll plate up some food.”

He hovers by the door, and I suspect he’s waiting to see if I can stand before leaving, so I swing my legs out of bed. The ankle screams as I make contact with the floor, and I have to grip the side of the mattress to steady myself. He doesn’t comerushing over, which I’m glad about, but he’s watching my every movement.

I get to my feet to prove a point, grateful for the support my boots are providing as I move around the side of the bed toward the bathroom. I feel for my knife in my coat pocket, relieved when I find it’s still there because it’s my only protection, and my father made it for my 21stbirthday just before he died.

I shuffle slowly to the bathroom and close the door behind me. I lean against it and wait until I hear his footsteps disappear back out into the main cabin before I look around properly. I’m surprised by what I see; it’s a proper shower. Not fancy, but glass and tile and a proper overhead shower, not like the camping ones some cabins have. There’s some shower gel on the side, a towel folded on the ledge, and I spot a pile of clothes nearby. My ankle is screaming, but the call of a warm shower is stronger.

I perch myself on the ledge and begin to work my boots off. The left comes off a lot slower and harder than the right, and when I look, I see my ankle has gone a deep medley of purple and yellow. Taking my coat and sweater off feels even harder because every time I move, my ribs protest, and by the time I’m down to my underwear, I feel dizzy. I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself as I stand to switch the water on, almost crying with relief when the steam begins to rise. I haven’t washed since those rogues took me; it’s been weeks, and I haven’t even had time to care. But standing here now, I realize what poor condition I’m in. Stepping into the stall, I grab the shower gel and just stand under the hot water for a moment, trying not to cry.

Giving up, I let the tears fall as the dirt washes off me, pooling around my feet before going down the drain. I knowshifters can hear anything, so I stifle my cries as I open the shower gel and wash myself from top to bottom, wincing as I bend even slightly. My hands shake slightly, and I know this is going to wipe me out completely—the reality that I never would have made it off this mountain if this man hadn’t come along is stark, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe with him either.

I’m gentle with my hair, but I still find blood on my hands where the cut is still fragile. Better to get the dirt out and worry about the bleeding later, though I decide. There’s a huge bruise across my hip and an even larger one covering my left ribs where I hit the rock. When the water runs clear and I can’t justify standing under the heat any longer, I shut the water off and grab the towel. I feel vulnerable with nothing on, already knowing that the lock means nothing, so I pick up my underwear but quickly discard it as ruined, sorting through the clothes he put on the side. There are two or three options of different sizes, all too big, but I settle on a pair of sweats that I have to roll the waist over twice, and a sweater with a faded logo.

I pocket the knife and finger-comb my hair, turning to look in the mirror; I barely recognize myself for a moment. I’m just grateful I didn’t look before getting in the shower because I’m sure it was much worse. My cheeks look hollow; I knew I hadn’t eaten much, but I didn’t realize the effect would be so obvious. The heat from the shower has brought some color to my cheeks, but overall, I look ghostly pale, which probably looks worse against my dark hair and icy blue eyes. I can’t even imagine how bad I looked, or smelled, when he found me.