Page 48 of Fat Betrayed Mate
"Her symptoms getting worse?"
"Everything's getting worse." The admission slips out before I can stop it, and suddenly, I'm fighting back the tears I didn't know were building. "I just... I can't..."
"Hey." Thomas's hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"
I look up into his concerned face, and for a moment, I almost tell him everything. About the documents, about the evidence that someone's been in my house, about the growing certainty that we're out of time.
Instead, I kiss him.
The contact is desperate, born of fear and need, and the overwhelming desire to feel something other than panic. Thomas responds immediately, his arms coming around me, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest.
This isn't like our encounter at the ranger station, and yet, it’s somehow exactly the same. I feel overcome with raw need, the kind that comes from staring into an abyss and choosing connection over isolation.
His hands tangle in my hair as I press closer, backing him toward the couch, needing him closer, needing the weight of his body to anchor me to something real. When we tumble onto the cushions, I straddle his lap, my mouth finding the sensitive spot below his ear that always made him groan.
"Fiona," he gasps, his hands roaming over my back, claiming curves he once knew by heart.
"Don't think," I whisper against his throat, echoing my words from the ranger station. "Please, let’s just not think.”
He captures my mouth again, and for a few precious minutes, there's nothing but sensation—the taste of him, the feel of his hands on my skin, the way he makes me feel alive instead of just surviving.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Thomas cups my face in his palms.
"Trust me," he says quietly. "Whatever's got you so scared, whatever you're hiding—let me help."
The words are like cold water, snapping me back to reality. I pull away, immediately missing his warmth but knowing I can't afford the luxury of his comfort.
"I can't," I say, climbing off his lap and putting distance between us.
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
Thomas sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "It matters to me. Fiona, I can see you're terrified. Let me protect you."
"Thomas, you’re naive." The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see him flinch.
He looks hurt, then angry, then simply hurt again. “So much has changed since then—”
"Has it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern. You decide what's best for me without consulting me, then act accordingly."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it?" I cross my arms, building walls between us even as my body still hums from his touch. "You want me to trust you with my secrets while you keep yours locked away."
"My secrets are meant to protect you."
"And my secrets are meant to protect my daughter." The truth slips out before I can catch it, and Thomas's eyes sharpen.
"Protect her from what?"
I realize I've said too much, revealed more than I intended. "From people who might use her to hurt me."
"People like who?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does if—"
