Page 31 of Fat Enemy Mate

“Don’t make it a thing,” she says, walking around the counter and grabbing the sweeping brush to obviously start clearing some of the broken glass caused by the fight.

I smile, relieved she hasn’t lost her bite. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say and set the security alarm before closing the door behind me. The first thing I do is grab some timber and head round to find the broken window. I know that the security system wasn’t designed to stop Cheslem rogues from launching an attack—it’s to stop vagrants from breaking in during the winter months. I did expect the wards to hold up better, though, and I curse myself for getting too complacent as I hammer sometimber over the broken window, adding an extra layer for good measure. I make a note to run through a whole new protocol with Connor and the rest of the security team. With the ongoing threat from Cheslem, we need these outposts to be better prepared.

I bury the bodies in a shallow grave and put timber over them so we can deal with them later—they’re sure as hell not staying buried on our land, not with any lingering Cheslem dark magic on them, but I’m not going to risk taking them further from the cabin right now. When I head back in, I find her sitting at the table, a hot coffee in front of her, and the smell of stew fills the cabin, taking me by surprise. She looks calmer than I expected. The room is tidy, and she has some color back in her cheeks.

She’s not hiding, and she’s not cowering.

Chapter 16 - Lara

The stew is surprisingly good. Surprising because I made it on autopilot using one of the long-life sachets and I was barely paying attention to it, thinking I’d burned it, but it’s actually quite nice.

Maybe I’m just grateful for something to do while I try not to think about Wilf disposing of bodies outside. I’m not usually squeamish. The forest doesn’t allow you to look away from death, after all. But there’s something unsettling about the thought of the rogues lying dead outside, with surely more coming, to do what? Capture me? Kill me? My stomach churns, and I thought the stew would make it worse, but testing a few spoonfuls out of the pan, I’m surprised to find it actually helps.

When he comes back in, the cold comes too, and I find myself reaching for the knife again almost instinctively before I realize it’s just him. I pride myself on being strong, but I know I’m shaken in ways I don’t want to admit. I watch as he toes off his boots by the door and shrugs out of his thick coat. There’s dried blood on the side of his face, down his neck, and on his hands. He sees me looking.

“It’s not mine,” he says.

“You look like you’ve been in a whole new fight,” I say, trying to make light of something that doesn’t feel light at all.

He huffs something that sounds almost like a laugh and goes to the sink to clean himself up. He has his back to me, and I watch the muscles flex under his torn shirt and force myself to stir the stew and keep busy by finding some bowls, but I can’t help myself and keep looking anyway.

I put the stew into two bowls and sit at the island, taking a spoonful, but there’s something about his presence, or maybejust the blood, which makes the previously quite decent stew taste off. I put the spoon back down just as he turns around.

“You need to eat,” he says.

“I will, I am,” I reply.

“You didn’t even finish one mouthful,” he says. “You need food and strength.”

“You weren’t even looking at me. How do you know what I did or didn’t eat?” I huff, picking the spoon back up.

“I don’t have to be looking right at you to know what you’re doing, Lara.” He says, and there’s something underneath the dry exchange that makes any reply I might have attempted die on my lips.

I start eating the stew, and he brings his bowl over to the island too and takes a seat. The cabin is quiet, far too quiet, as we eat. The only sound is the occasional texts that come through on his phone. Updates, he tells me, but nothing more. He seems satisfied by what he reads, though, and that makes me feel slightly calmer.

It doesn’t stop my hands shaking when I pick up my coffee, though, and he notices—I’ve realized he always notices the details. Instead of saying anything, he leans back in his chair and glances up at the ceiling as if weighing something up.

“You see that beam,” he says, tipping his head at the long one that runs above our heads, “The one with the split in it.”

I look up and immediately see the long crack that runs almost half the length of the old dark timber.

“Bryan did that,” he says. “Last summer. They all come up here for a week after the spring patrols settle. It’s supposed to be hunting, but that’s just code for drinking homebrew and letting off steam after the winter thaws.”

“You don’t go,” I say; it’s not a question. It’s the way he says that they go; it’s not a we.

“I go, I just don’t stay,” he says with a shrug that’s probably meant to shut down the subject, but it doesn’t quite land the way he wants it to, and he knows it. “I live near enough, just over the ridge. A week holed up with all of them would be more than I’d want to deal with. You think this cabin is calm now, but it’s a different place once the pack descends.”

I glance around, imagining the cabin full of rowdy men, shifters. I can’t quite picture it, maybe because I don’t want to think about it. So I nod to him to continue, “So what happened to the beam?”

The corner of his mouth goes. “Bryan had been making a fuss about some homebrew he’d made, but everyone knows Bryan can’t make brew to save his life. Connor's the one who’s good at it. Everyone gets up here, and there’s no room, bags and shit everywhere, and Bryan's got a full barrel, so he decides to put it up in the rafters for storage, get it out of the way. I did tell him it would be better off in one of the storage sheds, but he was horrified. Much too precious to keep outside, apparently.

“He put a heavy barrel up in the roof,” I say, glancing up at the old beams.

"He put a barrel of homebrew in the roof," I repeat. “Literally everyone told him it was an awful idea and much too heavy, but to be fair to him, he got it up there. Everyone forgot about it because it was a busy few days of hunting. I was out on the ridge, busy. But when I got back for some training, they decided to have a cookout. They’d all had a fair bit of Connor’s homebrew when Bryan remembers his and wants everyone to try it, convinced he’d come up with some amazing new recipe.

I’m watching him now instead of staring at my coffee, and I’m struck by how clearly recalling something amusing makes his face light up; he looks so much younger when he smiles.

“We probably should have stopped him,” he goes on, “But Bryan can be stubborn. He can’t be bothered to get the rope, so he gets one foot on the counter over there, one on the shelf, a hand on the beam, and just hoists himself up. The beam doesn’t approve of the plan; we all hear the crack. Bryan panics and lets go, grabs his barrel, and brings the whole thing down on the table that used to sit right here. Whole things smashed to pieces, and Bryan lying in the middle of it, the barrel rolling off toward the door. First thing out of his mouth…Is the barrel ok?”