Page 27 of Fat Betrayed Mate
She stares up at me, conflict warring in her expression. I can see her fighting herself, fighting the pull between us that defies logic and time and all the very good reasons she has to hate me.
"I can't," she whispers. "I can't do this again."
"Yes, you can," I say, leaning closer. "We can."
Her resistance crumbles all at once. She surges up to meet me, her hands fisting in my shirt as our lips crash together with six years of separation and longing behind them. The kissis desperate and fierce, with nothing gentle or hesitant about it. She tastes like coffee and possibility, and when she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, my control nearly snaps entirely.
My hands slide into her hair, scattering the elastic that holds her ponytail, and she presses closer, her body molding against mine like she was made to fit there. This is what I've missed, what I've dreamed about during the long years apart—the way she responds to my touch, the way she gives as good as she gets, the way she makes me feel like I'm more than the sum of my mistakes.
"Thomas!" James's voice cuts through the haze of desire like cold water. "There you are."
Fiona springs away from me so quickly she nearly stumbles, her hands flying to her hair to smooth it back into place. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her cheeks flushed, and the sight of her like this—disheveled and beautiful and mine—makes my wolf want to claim her right here in front of everyone.
"This can't happen," she says, her voice shaking as she takes another step back. "This was a mistake."
"Fiona—"
"No." She holds up a hand to stop me from coming closer. "I have to think about Maisie. About what's best for her. And this—" she gestures between us, "this isn't it."
She starts gathering her things with jerky, agitated movements, refusing to meet my eyes. I want to go to her, to convince her that what just happened wasn't a mistake but the most right thing I've felt in years. But James is approaching with that determined expression that means pack business, and the moment is already broken.
"Sorry to interrupt," James says, though his keen eyes suggest he knows exactly what he interrupted. "But we've got developments on the border situation. Nic wants you in his office."
Fiona shoulders her gym bag, still not looking at me. "I have to go."
"We need to talk about this," I call after her.
"No," she says over her shoulder, her voice steady now but cold. "We really don't."
I watch her walk away, my body still humming with the memory of her touch, my heart pounding with the knowledge that she kissed me back. She can deny it all she wants, can build walls, and make excuses, but I felt her response. For a few precious moments, she was mine again.
"You're playing with fire," James observes mildly.
"I know." I turn to face him, probably looking as wrecked as I feel. "What's the situation?"
"Trail cameras picked up movement on the northern border. Human movement. Armed." His expression grows serious. "Nic thinks it might be scouts from that League group."
The news hits me like a physical blow. If Edward's people are already probing our defenses, then we're running out of time. And Fiona—beautiful, stubborn, infuriating Fiona—is walking right into the center of a storm she doesn't even know is coming.
"Let's go," I say grimly, following James toward the pack house.
But as we walk, I can't stop thinking about the way she felt in my arms, the way she kissed me like she was drowning and I was air. Whatever's coming, whatever Edward Wright hasplanned, I'll find a way to protect her. Even if she never forgives me for the choices I made six years ago.
Even if protecting her means letting her go all over again.
Chapter 7 - Fiona
"Her temperature is still elevated," Dr. Sarah Knowles murmurs, pressing her stethoscope to Maisie's back. "Deep breath, sweetie."
Maisie complies, sitting perfectly still on the examination table while the pack healer conducts her assessment. I watch from the corner chair, my hands clenched in my lap, fighting to keep my expression neutral while my heart pounds with anxiety.
"And you said she just turned four?" Dr. Knowles asks, making notes on her tablet.
"That's right," I lie smoothly, the falsehood bitter on my tongue. "In August."
The healer frowns, checking something on her screen. "The symptoms you've described—elevated temperature, amber eye flashes, restless sleep—they're consistent with early manifestation. But at four years old..." She trails off, shaking her head. "I've only seen two cases of manifestation before age five in my fifteen years of practice. Both involved powerful bloodlines."
My stomach clenches. "Is that... concerning?"
