Page 39 of Fat Betrayed Mate
After you broke my heart. After you told me, I meant nothing to you. After you left me pregnant and alone with nowhere to turn.
"Away," I say carefully. "I traveled. Found work where I could."
"Must have been hard. Especially after Maisie was born."
The mention of my daughter makes my chest tighten. "We managed."
"What about her father?" The question is gentle, but I hear the tension underneath it. "Did he help? Financially, I mean."
I pull my hands free, turning away to pack up the first aid supplies. "He wasn't in the picture."
"What kind of man abandons his child?"
The pain in his voice surprises me. I glance back to find him staring at his hands, his expression dark.
"The kind who decides responsibility is too much trouble," I say bitterly. "The kind who makes promises he never intended to keep."
"Bastard." The word comes out low and vicious. "She's an amazing kid. Bright, funny, brave. Any man would be lucky to call her daughter."
The fierce protectiveness in his voice does something dangerous to my heart. This is Thomas, as I remember him—passionate, loyal, ready to fight the world for the people he cares about. It's the version of him that made me fall in love all those years ago.
"She is amazing," I agree softly. "She's the best thing I've ever done."
"You're a good mother, Fiona. Better than good. She's lucky to have you."
The unexpected praise breaks something loose in my chest. When was the last time someone told me I was doing okay? When was the last time someone looked at my life and saw strength instead of failure?
"I try," I whisper. "Most days, I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water."
"You're stronger than you know." Thomas reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and cups my face in his palm. "You survived on your own with a child. You came back here when it had to be the last place you wanted to be. You volunteer for dangerous patrols to protect people who are basically strangers to you. That's not barely keeping your head above water—that's heroic."
I lean into his touch before I can stop myself, starved for comfort and acceptance and the feeling of being seen as something other than a burden or a complication.
"Thomas..." I start, not sure what I mean to say.
"I know I hurt you," he says quietly. "I know I have no right to ask for anything from you. But seeing you today, the way you took charge when I was bleeding, the way you're raising your daughter despite everything you've been through..." He pauses, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "You deserved so much better than what happened between us."
The words hit me like a physical blow, six years of carefully buried pain rising to the surface all at once.
"Then why?" I whisper. "Why did you do it?"
His face contorts. “Fiona…”
"I know what you’ll say,” I cut in. “You can't tell me. It's complicated, you had reasons. But Thomas, I loved you. I would have done anything for you, been anything you needed. And you threw it all away without even trying to explain."
For a moment, I think he might actually answer me this time, might actually tell me the truth. His mouth opens, words seeming to hover on the edge of speech. Then he shakes his head, that familiar wall sliding back into place.
"I can't," he repeats, but his voice breaks on the words.
The pain in his expression mirrors my own, and suddenly, I'm tired of fighting this. Tired of pretending I don't feel the pull between us, tired of denying the way my body responds to his nearness, tired of protecting my heart from something that might not be the threat I think it is.
"Thomas," I breathe, and then I'm kissing him.
The contact is electric, years of longing and frustration and unfinished business pouring out in a single desperate moment. He responds immediately, his arms coming around me, pulling me closer until there's no space between us.
This isn't the gentle exploration of our first kiss all those years ago, or even the desperate claiming from the training grounds. This is raw need and mutual comfort and the acknowledgment that whatever happened between us before, right now, we need each other.
His hands tangle in my hair as I press closer, straddling his lap on the narrow bench, careful of his injured shoulder but unable to keep any more distance between us. He tastes like memory and possibility, like coming home after years of wandering.
