Page 58 of Fat Betrayed Mate
The meeting breaks up with assignments distributed and contingency plans activated. I head straight for the pack house, my wolf pushing against my control with every step. The main building buzzes with controlled chaos as families adapt to the new security measures, but something feels off the moment I walk through the doors.
"Where's Maisie Wright?" I ask the teacher overseeing the makeshift classroom.
One of the teachers looks up from a cluster of children working on art projects. "Her mother picked her up early this morning. Said the little one wasn't feeling well."
Not feeling well. My wolf's restlessness spikes into full alarm. "What time?"
"It was right around drop-off, actually. Around nine-thirty. They’d just gotten here, but they went right home." She frowns slightly. "Fiona seemed quite upset about something. I offered to have Dr. Knowles take a look at Maisie, but she insisted on taking her home."
Upset. I scan the room quickly, confirming that every other vulnerable child is accounted for and under supervision. Twenty-three children, aged three to ten, were present and engaged in activities designed to distract them from the adult panic swirling around them.
All except Maisie.
"I'm going to check on them," I tell Mrs. Peterson, probably too sharply because she gives me a concerned look.
"Is everything alright?"
I smile tightly. “It’s just routine.”
It's not routine, and we both know it, but she nods anyway. I'm already moving toward the door, my stride eating up distance as I head for Fiona's cottage.
The first thing I notice is the silence. No sounds of daily life—no television, no conversation, no little girl's laughter filtering through the windows.
I knock anyway, hoping against hope that she's just being cautious. No answer. I try the door handle and find it unlocked, which sends ice through my veins. Fiona never leaves her door unlocked.
Inside, the cottage tells a story I don't want to read. Dresser drawers hang open, their contents scattered as if someone searched through them quickly. Maisie's room shows signs of hasty packing—favorite toys missing from their usual spots, the closet half-empty.
But it's the kitchen that confirms my worst fears. A mug sits on the counter, one still half-full and cold to the touch. Fiona didn’t clear away Maisie’s breakfast—it’s still beside the sink, half-eaten. She left in a hurry.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting my wolf senses take over.
Fiona's lingering scent carries notes of panic and determination, underlaid with the metallic tang of fear. Maisie's scent is less alarmed. She doesn't understand what's happening.
The trail leads out the back door and into the forest, heading east toward the territory boundary. I follow it at a jog, my wolf pushing to shift and track faster, but I force myself to maintain human form. If I find them, they'll need to see me as Thomas, not as a predator.
The scent trail winds through familiar terrain—game paths I've walked since childhood, clearings where I played as a boy. Fiona knows these woods almost as well as I do, which is both a comfort and a concern. She's smart enough to avoid the obvious routes, but that also means she's heading into more dangerous territory.
Half a mile from her cottage, the trail takes an unexpected turn toward Devil's Ridge, a narrow outcropping that overlooks the eastern valley. It's defensible terrain if you know what you're doing, but it's also a dead end. Why would she—
The answer hits me with sudden clarity. She's not just running. She's thinking about it. Devil's Ridge offers a clear view of the surrounding area, perfect for someone trying to decide whether to flee or return. She’s surveying the area, trying to make up her mind.
I pick up my pace, my wolf's urgency bleeding through despite my attempts to stay calm. Every minute Fiona and Maisie spend outside the compound's protection is another minute Wright's people could find them.
The trail grows fresher as I climb toward the ridge, scents sharpening until I can practically taste their emotions on the wind. Fear, exhaustion, and something else—resignation, maybe, or desperation.
I slow as I approach the final bend, moving carefully through the underbrush until I can see the ridge's rocky platform. They're there, just as I expected, but the sight still hits me like a physical blow.
Fiona sits on a fallen log with her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs. Two overstuffed backpacks rest beside her, along with a duffel bag I recognizefrom their original arrival in Silvercreek months ago. Everything they own, packed and ready for another desperate flight.
Maisie kneels beside her mother, one small hand patting Fiona's back in a gesture that's heartbreaking in its maturity. She's trying to comfort an adult in distress, taking on responsibilities no five-year-old should carry.
"Mama, don't cry," I hear her whisper. "We can go back if you want. I don't mind staying."
"It's not about what we want, baby girl," Fiona replies, her voice thick with tears. "Sometimes we don't get to choose."
"But I like it here. I like my friends. I like Thomas."
The words hit me harder than they should. This child—this brave, bright little girl—has been forced to live her entire life on the run because of one man's obsession. She's never had the chance to form real attachments, never had the security of calling a place home.
