Page 16 of Fat Enemy Mate

There were at least twenty shifters in the camp where they had me. I counted as many as I could, but as the days went on, it became harder to concentrate; plus, not many came near me after that first day, so I could only count through the dirty window. It’s a miracle I was able to slip away, and miracles don’t tend to repeat. I have no idea how many shifters live in his town, but I know where it is, and I know it’s a lot more than twenty. He has an alpha, a Luna, and a head of security; they run patrols, and they have fancy security systems. I would have no chance of escape. He told me that there are humans living in the town, but are they really free? Can they really leave?

I’m not going. I would rather take my chances on a healing sprained ankle and six inches of snow—both are things I’ve dealt with before.

I think he genuinely thinks he knows what's best for me, making decisions for me. I think perhaps he really doesn’t think his brand of shifters is a threat to me, but he can’t possibly know that. Maybe he doesn’t mean any harm—or perhaps he’s just playing nice because he senses my voice could stop him, and he just wants to use it too. I don’t know what the rogues were going to do with the witch, or what they would have done if she had arrived before I escaped, but I’m not going to sit around and wait to see if these shifters have the same plans.

I continue to weigh up my options.

I can still hear him in the other room. Every instinct is telling me to just slip out again and run, but I know I’d need to be far better prepared than that if I’m going to make it. I get up again and cross to the chair where the bundle of clothes he gave me is still folded, and start dressing in layers. I’ve washed and dried my underwear and jeans that actually fit, so I pull those on, then layer a knotted t-shirt and a thick sweater. I pocket my knife again and pull on two pairs of socks.

I know my boots are clean and dry now by the back door, ready to go. I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to escape today, but I need to be ready if an opportunity presents itself. I stand and check my ankle, which feels more secure today thanks to the strapping and extra socks; then I walk into the front room as though I’ve just gotten up.

He’s at the kitchen counter and turns when I walk in, his gaze sweeping me in a way that makes my skin tingle, but he doesn’t say anything about the fact that I’m wearing extra layers inside.

“Morning,” he says, “you look better today.”

“Marginally,” I reply as lightly as I can.

“Coffee’s fresh,” he says, pouring a cup and putting it on the table for me, “breakfast is still warm in the pan.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it, as I make up a plate of eggs and bacon before sitting at the table. I watch as he turns and washes his own plate at the sink. The grey t-shirt he’s wearing this morning is tighter on his shoulders than the one he wore yesterday, and his hair is loose at his collar instead of tied back. I want to ignore the fact he’s handsome, but it’s increasingly difficult as I watch the muscles in his arms flex with every small movement. I push that thought down and focus on my breakfast. This is fuel I need if I’m going to have the strength to run at some point.

He dries his hands and lifts some large storage tubs onto the counter, taking out some sachets of dried food and more coffee. “Anything I can do to help?” I ask.

He pauses and looks at me for a moment. “I was going to start cooking some of this stew for later, if you want to do it while I bring the wood in?” He says, “I noticed the roof on the store isabout to cave in, so I need to reinforce it; otherwise all the dried wood will get wet.”

I look at him. Reinforcing a roof is going to take a while, plus time to bring in the wood. This is probably my best chance; he could be out there all morning.

I keep my face neutral. I know I can’t give myself away, not even a little. So, I shrug and say, “I can do that. It will be good to feel useful.”

"Alright," he replies, seemingly satisfied.

I keep eating as he pulls on a flannel overshirt from the hook by the front door and his boots, lacing them tightly the way you have to when going out into the snow. He glances back at me before opening the door, “Shout if you need anything—the store is right over by the drive, but I’ll hear you.”

Of course, he will with his shifter hearing. “Ok, I’ll get on with the stew; you’ll be ready for it after sorting the roof out.” I smile as he nods and closes the door behind him.

I count to five.

Then I’m on my feet, grabbing a handful of the protein bars from the box on the table and a water bottle before heading to the back door for my coat and boots. I find a hat and some gloves on the shelf; they’re too big, but once I tuck the gloves into my sleeves, they fit well enough.

I rest my hand on the door handle, knowing this is it. If the alarm is on, then there’s no chance. But he didn’t set the alarm when he left, and there are no lights on the panel. I can’t go out the front because he’d see me straight away, so it’s the back door or nothing. I push the handle down, holding my breath.

The door clicks and opens. I pause, waiting for the blare of an alarm or the sound of his feet rushing toward me, but there’s nothing.

I step out onto the back porch and begin moving toward the back of the cabin, careful to keep my footing light. The snow is deep, and leaving footprints is going to be inevitable, though there are ways to disguise them once I get going. I just need to get out onto one of the trails, or better still, cut through the treeline and find the road. I clear the building and drop down into the deeper snow that leads down into the valley below.

I make it about one hundred yards.

I don’t even see or hear him coming until he’s on me. His arm closes around my upper body, his hand over my mouth as I scream, and he pushes me roughly against the nearest tree.

“Lara.” He says, very quietly, not out of breath at all.

I try to twist, but his hand drops from my mouth to my throat, and I still. Annoyingly, I have the brief register that his body is entirely flush with mine, and my body does something it has no business doing at a time like this—it responds.

I shove that down at the same time as I shove against his chest, not that he moves even slightly.

“Inside.” He tells me.

“Let me go,” I demand, knowing how petulant I sound.