Page 1 of Fat Betrayed Mate
Chapter 1 - Fiona
The coffee maker sputters and wheezes like it's on its last breath. I tap the side of the ancient machine, willing it to hang on for one more morning. Just one more. We can't afford another replacement, not when Maisie needs new shoes for the winter.
"Come on, you stubborn thing," I mutter, pressing the button again.
The machine gives a death rattle before reluctantly dripping brown liquid into my chipped mug. I breathe in the aroma, closing my eyes for a brief moment. Small victories. That's what my life has become—a series of small victories amid crushing defeat.
Outside the kitchen window, Silvercreek is waking up. Mist clings to the pines surrounding our small cottage, one of the oldest and most neglected dwellings on pack land. The Alpha was "generous" enough to let us have it when we were forced to return three months ago. Located at the very edge of pack territory, it might as well have a neon sign flashing "Outcasts Live Here."
The wooden floorboards creak behind me, and I don't need to turn around to know it's Maisie. Her scent—honeysuckle and sunshine—reaches me before her tiny footsteps do.
"Morning, Mama," she says, her voice still thick with sleep.
I turn, and my heart does what it always does when I look at her—swells until it feels too big for my chest. Five years old, with a riot of dark curls that refuse to be tamed and eyes that shift between hazel and amber, depending on her mood. Right now, they're more amber than usual, a warning sign I can't ignore.
"Morning, Sweet Pea." I smooth down her curls, subtly checking her temperature. Slightly elevated. Another thing to worry about. "Ready for pancakes?"
Her eyes light up, amber flecks dancing. "With blueberries?"
"Is there any other way?" I wink, pushing away the nagging worry. Her shifter genes shouldn't be manifesting this early. Not if she were truly "just turned four," as we've been telling everyone.
The lie sits heavy in my stomach as I mix the batter, but it's necessary. If anyone in Silvercreek knew Maisie's actual age, they'd do the math. They'd realize she was conceived during that summer with Thomas, and everything I've built to protect her would crumble.
"Can I help stir?" Maisie climbs onto the chair I've pushed against the counter, her Miss Sparkle pajamas—a thrift store find she adores—sliding off one shoulder.
"Sure can, baby." I hand her the wooden spoon, watching as her little tongue pokes out in concentration.
The kitchen warms as morning light filters through the curtains I sewed from discounted fabric. Three months, and I've done what I can to make this place feel like home for Maisie. Colorful drawings taped to faded wallpaper. Mismatched furniture arranged to hide the worst water stains. A braided rug covering the spot where the floorboards are splintered beyond repair.
"Mama, my skin feels all tingly again," Maisie says quietly, her eyes fixed on the batter. "Like right before bedtime last night. Is that because my wolf wants to come out?"
My spine stiffens. I check that the curtains are drawn before responding. "Yes, Sweet Pea. Your wolf is getting more eager lately."
"But I'm not supposed to shift yet, right? Not until I'm older." She concentrates on stirring, amber flecks dancing in her eyes. "The other kids at school say most shifters don't change until they're seven or eight."
"That's right." I drop a kiss on her forehead, anxiety squeezing my chest. She's manifesting early—too early. It's a sign of strong bloodlines, the kind Thomas's family is known for. Another secret we can't afford to have discovered.
"And we don't talk about our apartment in the city, or my real birthday last month, right?" she continues, clearly reciting our safety rules.
"Right again, Sweet Pea. Just like we practiced." I take the bowl from her and pour the first pancake. "Remember what we say if someone asks about your daddy?"
"That he left before I was born, and we don't know where he is." Her little face scrunches up. "But that's not true, is it, Mama? You know where he is."
The spatula stills in my hand. "What makes you say that?"
Maisie shrugs, suddenly interested in the pattern of the countertop. "I saw a photo in the old house. There was a man that looked like me, and he was here. He was with you."
My throat tightens. This isn't the first time she's deduced far more than I ever wanted her to from almost nothing. She’s eerily prescient sometimes. Another inheritance from her father, though she doesn't know it. I flip the pancake, buying time before answering.
"Sometimes photos are just photos, baby." The lie tastes bitter, but I swallow it down. "Don’t think too much about it, okay? Now, go get dressed for school. Ms. Hendricks says you're going to learn about forest plants today."
Her face brightens at the mention of school. Somehow, despite the years of upheaval and chaos and change that have been her short life, she still manages to love school, to adore her classmates and, throw herself into projects, and come home rambling about her favourite teachers and the things she’s learning. She’s such a bright kid. As Maisie scampers off to her room, I wonder how much longer that spark of joy will endure.
Twenty minutes later, with Maisie fed and dressed in her least-worn jeans and favorite purple sweater, we're making our way down the winding dirt path toward the main compound. Fall has painted Silvercreek in crimson and gold, the trees showing off like they're trying to make up for the town's other shortcomings. The beauty would be breathtaking if it weren't so suffocating.
"Look, Mama! A deer!" Maisie points excitedly to a doe watching us from between the trees, her amber eyes flashing brighter.
"I see it," I say, squeezing her hand in warning. "Remember to stay calm when you see animals, just like we practiced."
