Page 17 of Fat Betrayed Mate
"It's not fine," Fiona says sharply. "But it is accurate. Let's not pretend either of us wants to be here."
Her directness catches me off guard. The Fiona I knew six years ago was softer around the edges, less confrontational. This new version—hardened by time and motherhood and whatever struggles she's faced—doesn't bother to mask her resentment.
She settles Maisie with her drawing supplies, then takes a seat across from me, her posture rigid. "Let's get started. I have errands to run after this."
I slide a folder toward her, careful not to let our fingers touch. "The first trial is a synchronized tracking exercise. We'll be following a scent trail through the northern forest, working together to—"
"I know how tracking works," she interrupts, scanning the papers. "I grew up here too."
"Right." I shift uncomfortably. "The trial tests our ability to coordinate, to communicate without words. Essential skills for mates."
She flinches slightly at the word "mates” but keeps her eyes on the documents. "When?"
"Three days from now. Dawn. We'll meet at the northern trailhead. I think they’re trying to make sure there won’t be… spectators."
We both wince, remembering the grotesque spectacle of Luna’s trials only months ago.
Outside, the sky darkens suddenly, the morning light dimming as clouds roll in. I glance toward the windows, noticing the gathering storm. "Looks like rain."
Fiona follows my gaze. "The forecast didn't mention a storm."
"Mountain weather," I shrug. "Unpredictable."
The first drops hit the windowpane as we continue reviewing the trial details. Ten minutes later, the sky opens, rain hammering against the glass with startling ferocity. A crack of thunder makes Maisie jump in her seat.
"It's okay, Sweet Pea," Fiona soothes immediately. "Just a storm."
"I don't like the loud noise," Maisie says, abandoning her drawing to move closer to her mother.
"We can reschedule," I offer, watching Fiona wrap a protective arm around her daughter.
"No," she says firmly. "Let's just finish this. The storm will pass."
But it doesn't pass. If anything, it intensifies, lightning flashing at increasingly shorter intervals, thunder cracking directly overhead. The old Pack Building creaks and groans around us as wind lashes at the windows.
"Thomas?" A voice calls from the hallway. James appears in the doorway, looking apologetic. "Nic says we're on lockdown until this passes. Flash flood warning for the lower roads."
"Great," Fiona mutters. "Trapped with you. Exactly how I wanted to spend my morning."
Her hostility is palpable, but I can't blame her. From her perspective, I'm the man who discarded her without explanation, who broke every promise I ever made.
James winces at her tone.
"Sorry," he offers, giving her a sympathetic nod before turning back to me. "You okay in here?"
"We're fine," I assure him, though "fine" is the furthest thing from the truth. The small room suddenly feels like a trap, with Fiona's scent—lavender and rain and something uniquely her—amplified in the close quarters.
James hesitates, then adds in a lower voice, "Try not to kill each other, okay? Poor odds in the betting pool."
I shoot him a warning glare, but the damage is done.
"Betting pool?" Fiona asks sharply after he leaves.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Ignore him."
"They're betting on us? On what, exactly?"
"It's nothing," I try, but her raised eyebrow forces the truth out. "Fine. They're betting on whether we'll complete the trials or kill each other first."
