Page 64 of Fat Betrayed Mate
Perfect for a man planning to make an example of his shifter daughter and granddaughter.
"Get help," I tell Luna, though I'm not sure she can hear me. "Tell Nic where we've gone."
I shift back to wolf form, the transformation smoother this time, my wolf eager to hunt. Thomas meets my eyes, and a moment of perfect understanding passes between us. Whatever lies between us—secrets, betrayals, half-truths—none of it matters now.
Only Maisie matters.
We run as one unit through the forest, following the scent trail of fear and triumph that marks my father's path. It leads us beyond pack territory, into the neutral zone where human and shifter lands meet uneasily.
The hunting lodge appears through the trees as dusk settles—a ramshackle two-story building with peeling paint and boarded windows. Vehicles crowd the dirt clearing around it, men with rifles patrolling the perimeter. Flood lights mounted on poles illuminate the area with harsh white light, creating deep shadows at the forest edge where we hide.
Beneath the overwhelming scent of humans and gun oil, I catch it—Maisie's unique signature, tinged with fear but alive. Inside that building, my daughter waits, terrified and alone with the man who wants to eradicate her kind.
Thomas's wolf presses against mine, a silent question in his eyes. I nod toward a half-open cellar window on the building's far side, obscured by overgrown bushes and shadowed from the floodlights.
Together, we circle through the forest, using every shadow and dip in the terrain for cover. The hunters are alert but overconfident, their attention focused outward toward the forest rather than the immediate perimeter of the building.
We pause at the forest edge, twenty yards from the cellar window. Thomas's amber gaze meets mine, and I see my own fierce determination reflected back at me. We have no plan beyond getting inside, no weapons beyond teeth and claws.
But we have something the hunters don't understand—the desperate, unstoppable fury of parents fighting for their child.
Even if only one of us knows it yet.
Chapter 16 - Thomas
We slip through the cellar window one after another, wolf bodies contorting through the narrow opening. The basement air hits my nostrils like a wall—mildew, and dust overlaid with the recent intrusion of gun oil, sweat, and the acrid tang of wolfsbane. My hackles rise instinctively at the latter; they've come prepared for us.
Fiona's dark form moves silently beside me, her ears swiveling to catch every sound. Even after all those years, we move in perfect synchrony, communicating with subtle shifts of posture and silent glances. I take point, following Maisie's scent through the darkness while Fiona guards our rear.
The lodge's basement is a warren of storage rooms and forgotten furniture. Decades of hunting seasons have left their mark—broken chairs, discarded coolers, abandoned gear creating a maze of obstacles. We navigate through them, pawing open a door that leads to a narrow staircase.
Footsteps overhead freeze us in place. Three men, maybe four, moving with the deliberate rhythm of a patrol. Their voices drift down to us, muffled but clear enough to my wolf hearing.
"—Wright wants the broadcast equipment set up by midnight—"
"—overkill if you ask me, all this for one bitch and her kid—"
"—ever seen what these things can do? Trust me, it's not overkill—"
A door slams, cutting off their conversation. I look back at Fiona, whose eyes gleam with a mixture of fear and rage in the darkness. We need to hurry.
The stairs creak beneath our weight as we ascend, emerging into a short hallway lined with storage closets. At the end, a heavier door leads to the main lodge. Maisie's scent grows stronger here—tinged with fear and something else, something that makes my wolf uneasy. A heated, wild note that shouldn't be present in a child's scent.
A patrol passes on the other side of the door, forcing us to wait. Fiona's anxiety rolls off her in waves, her scent sharp with a desperate need to reach her daughter. I press against her side briefly, a wordless promise:We'll find her.
When the footsteps fade, we slip through the door into the main building. The hunting lodge's great room has been transformed into an operations center. Maps cover the walls, marked with positions and planned movements. Communication equipment clutters every surface, and enough weapons to outfit a small militia hang on racks against the far wall.
This isn't a hastily assembled hate group. This is an army preparing for war.
We skirt the edges of the room, staying in the shadows. Through an open doorway, I glimpse what looks like broadcasting equipment—cameras, lights, a makeshift backdrop with some kind of symbol painted on it. A demonstration, then. A public statement.
Maisie's scent pulls us upward, toward the second floor. We find a back staircase and climb carefully, freezing at every creak and groan of the old building. The upper floor consists of a long hallway with rooms branching off on either side—once guest quarters for visiting hunters, now repurposed as barracks and storage.
Her scent leads to a door at the far end, modified with a new lock and a small observation window cut into the wood. The smell of fear intensifies here, mixed with that strange, heated quality that raises my hackles.
We approach cautiously, and I rise up on my hind legs to peer through the window. The room beyond has been stripped of furniture except for a metal cage in the center—the kind used for transporting large dogs, but reinforced with additional bars. Inside, huddled in the corner, is Maisie.
Even through the small window, I can see something's wrong. Her skin glistens with sweat, her small body trembling with more than just fear. Her eyes, when they briefly catch the light, flash with an unnatural glow. Recognition hits me like a physical blow—pre-shift symptoms.
