Page 10 of Fat Betrayed Mate
The scent of blackberry wine hits my nose, heady and sharp. "I need to get home to Maisie."
"Mrs. Finley is watching her, right? She'll be fine for another hour." Luna’s expression softens. "Besides, running away right now will only make things worse. Trust me—I’d know.”
I take a reluctant sip of the wine, the sweetness doing nothing to dissolve the knot in my throat. "Let them talk. They always have."
"True enough." Luna glances over my shoulder, her eyes widening slightly. "Heads up. He's coming this way."
I don't need to ask who. Thomas's scent reaches me before he does—pine and leather, unchanged after all these years. My body reacts instinctively, a warmth kindling low in my belly that has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with muscle memory. I hate that he still has this effect on me.
"I should go," I say quickly, but Luna’s hand on my arm stops me.
"Talk to him," she urges quietly. "Just for a minute. People are watching."
She's right—dozens of eyes track Thomas's progress across the clearing, hungry for drama. If I bolt now, it will only feed the gossip mill for weeks.
So I stand my ground as Thomas approaches, schooling my features into careful blankness. Up close, the changes in him are more apparent—lines at the corners of his eyes that weren't there before, a small scar across his left eyebrow, the broader set of his shoulders beneath his dark ceremonial jacket.
"Fiona," he says, my name sounding strange in his deeper voice. "Can we talk?"
Luna squeezes my arm once before slipping away, leaving us in a bubble of artificial privacy surrounded by curious onlookers.
"Isn't that what we're doing?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
His jaw tightens. "Somewhere less public."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
His eyes—still that impossible blue I remember too well—search mine. "Please."
Something in his tone—a vulnerability I've never heard from him—makes me waver. But then I remember another night, six years ago, when his voice held a different note. Cold. Dismissive. Final.
"I have nothing to say to you," I tell him, the words clipped.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. "We need to discuss the trials."
"We will. Tomorrow. During daylight hours, in a public place, with witnesses." I drain my wine cup in one swallow, the alcohol burning a path to my empty stomach. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get home to my daughter."
His expression changes at the mention of Maisie, something flashing in his eyes that I can't interpret. "Your daughter. Right."
There's an odd emphasis on the word "your" that makes my skin prickle with alarm. Does he suspect? No—impossible. I've been careful. No one knows.
"Yes, my daughter," I say firmly. "Who is waiting for me."
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
"The Pack Building. Tomorrow. We'll go over the details of the first trial."
It's not a request. I don't bother acknowledging it, simply walking away with as much dignity as I can muster, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back all the way to the tree line.
Once I'm out of sight of the Hollow, I abandon all pretense of composure. My legs shake so badly that I have to lean against a massive oak, gulping in the cold night air. This can't be happening. Not after everything. Not after I've worked so hard to build a life without him.
Unbidden, the memory rises—sharp and clear as cut glass.
Six years ago. Thomas's cabin. The last time we spoke properly—eye to eye, face to face—before today.
I arrived with my heart full of plans and hopes. We'd been meeting in secret all summer, stealing moments away from judging eyes. That night, I'd finally worked up the courage to tell him I'd applied to the same college he was attending in the fall. That we could have a future beyond stolen kisses in the forest.
But the man who opened the door wasn't the Thomas I knew. His face was shuttered, eyes cold in a way I'd never seen before.
