Page 18 of Fat Betrayed Mate
Her expression hardens. "I see. And what are the odds?"
"Fiona—"
"No, I'm curious," she presses, eyes flashing dangerously. She keeps her voice quiet so her daughter can’t hear. "What'sthe pack saying about the poor guy who drew the outsider in the lottery? Poor Thomas, stuck with damaged goods?"
The bitterness in her voice cuts deep. "That's not—"
"Don't lie to me, Thomas." Fiona leans forward, voice low but intense. "I've heard the whispers. I know what they’re saying. I know what you must think of me.”
I hate that she’s not entirely wrong. People are judging her harshly—for her obviously fatherless child, for the fact that she likely conceived her with some other shifter of some other pack within a year or so of leaving this one. I hate that a thread of revulsion at the idea lives in me, too—at the idea of some other guy having her.
"I don't care what they think," I say firmly, regardless.
"But I do," she snaps. "Because it affects me. It affects my daughter. Do you have any idea what it's like to return to a place where everyone either pities or despises you?"
Before I can answer, Maisie's small voice interrupts. "Mama, I'm hungry."
The tension breaks as Fiona turns to her daughter, her expression softening instantly. "I know, baby. We'll get lunch soon."
I reach for my backpack, suddenly recalling the sandwich I packed this morning. "I have food, if she wants it. Turkey and cheese."
Fiona looks ready to refuse, but Maisie pipes up, "Yes, please! I like cheese."
After a moment's hesitation, Fiona nods. "Fine. Thank you."
The words sound forced, but it's progress. I unwrap the sandwich, cutting it into quarters with a plastic knife from my pack, and slide it over to Maisie. The child beams at me, a bright smile that momentarily dissolves the tension in the room.
The storm continues to rage outside, trapping us in our uncomfortable tableau. Maisie munches happily on my sandwich, while Fiona and I maintain a strained silence, broken only by occasional comments about the trial details.
An hour passes. The constant drum of rain against the windows becomes almost hypnotic. Maisie, full and content, returns to her drawings, humming softly to herself. The sound creates an oddly domestic atmosphere, one that is at odds with the tension between Fiona and me.
Eventually, Maisie's humming slows, her small head nodding as she fights sleep. Within minutes, she's asleep, her dark curls spilling across the table, her folded arms resting on it. She's seemed to be sleeping a lot lately, a lot more than a usual five-year-old, though I’m not sure why. Maybe she's sick. The thought makes my chest ache, a strange sensation.
Fiona gently arranges her jacket as a makeshift pillow beneath her daughter's head, her movements tender. I watch, transfixed by this side of Fiona I never knew back then—the fierce, protective mother who handles her child with such gentle care.
With Maisie asleep, the room feels different. More intimate, somehow. The steady rhythm of the child's breathing adds a third heartbeat to the space between us.
"She's beautiful," I say quietly, breaking the long silence.
Fiona's eyes remain on her daughter. "Yes, she is."
"She seems... bright. For her age."
"She is." A small, proud smile touches Fiona's lips. "Too smart for her own good sometimes."
The conversation dies again, but the silence feels less hostile than before. After several minutes, I try once more.
"Luna and Nic seem happy."
Fiona glances up, surprised by the change in topic. "They do. Strange, considering how they started."
"The forced lottery, you mean?"
She nods. "Luna told me how much she resented him at first. How she fought against it every step."
"She definitely kept him on his toes," I agree, remembering Nic's frustration during those early days. "Now they're sickeningly cute. Luna's already talking about getting him wearing matching Christmas sweaters for the pack photo this year."
"No." Fiona's eyes widen slightly.
