Page 30 of Fat Betrayed Mate
Reluctantly, I slide into the makeshift bed, hyperaware of Thomas's warmth radiating beside me. We lie rigidly apart at first, but as the temperature continues to drop and rain begins pelting the shelter, the space between us gradually decreases.
"Better?" he asks when I finally stop shivering.
"Better," I admit grudgingly.
We lie in darkness, listening to rain drumming against our shelter. The warmth from Thomas's body seeps through my clothes, and I find myself relaxing despite my better judgment. This feels too familiar, too much like the countless nights we spent camping together six years ago.
"Do you remember," Thomas says quietly, "that time we got caught in the that summer storm near Devil's Peak?"
I do remember. We'd been hiking when an unexpected storm trapped us in a cave for a day. We were nineteen, often going off on hunts on our own to avoid prying eyes in Silvercreek, hiding what we were from all but those closest to us. Back then, I was still living with my father on his estate ten miles outside of the territory, traveling into Silvercreek at every chance I got, and took every opportunity I could to spend as little time as possible at home as he grew more and more overbearing. Thomas and I passed the time telling stories, playing word games, making love by the light of a single candle Thomas always packed as warm rain poured outside.
"Don't," I whisper.
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to make this nostalgic. Don't pretend we're anything more than two people completing a trial."
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is careful. "I'm not pretending anything. But we have history, Fiona. Good history, before everything went wrong."
I snort, derisive. "Before you decided I wasn't worth the trouble."
"That's not what happened."
I turn to face him in the darkness, anger flaring. "Then whatdidhappen, Thomas? Because from where I was lying—in your bed, planning our future—it seemed pretty clear."
His jaw tightens, visible even in the dim light filtering through the shelter walls. "It's complicated."
I prop myself up on one elbow, studying his face. "Six years, Thomas. Six years, I've wondered what I did wrong, what I said or didn't say to make you decide I wasn't enough. And you’ll never understand how much it killed me—never.”
Thomas’ eyes flash. “You moved on fast. You had a kid with some other man.”
“Don’t bring up Maisie,” I warn, voice so cold I surprise myself with it.
Thomas looks away, apologetic, eyes softening with something like sadness. He seems to consider his next words carefully.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he says eventually. "You were perfect.”
Were.Somehow, it tears me apart even more.
"Then why?" The question cracks out of me like a whip, carrying six years of hurt and confusion. "Why did you look me in the eye and tell me I meant nothing to you?"
Thomas reaches toward me, then stops himself. "I can't—"
"Can't what? Can't tell me the truth? Can't explain why you destroyed us?" Tears threaten, but I blink them back. "Because I've been trying to understand, Thomas. I've been trying to make sense of how someone could say they loved me and then throw me away like garbage."
"I never threw you away," he says, his voice raw. "God, Fiona, if you only knew—"
"Then tell me!" The words explode out of me, all my carefully constructed walls crumbling at once. "Tell me why you left. Tell me why you made me believe I was something disposable. Tell me why I had to—"
I catch myself just in time, the wordscarry your child alonedying on my lips. But Thomas is watching me with an intensity that suggests he heard what I didn't say.
"Had to what?" he asks quietly.
"Had to rebuild my entire life," I finish lamely. "Had to learn how to trust my own judgment again after you made me question everything I thought I knew about love."
He sits up abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "Fiona, I never wanted to hurt you. Everything I did, I did to protect—"
"To protect what? Your reputation? Your standing in the pack?"
