Page 43 of Fat Betrayed Mate
Maisie tugs on Luna's hand. "Where's Mama?"
"Your mama's on patrol, sweetie. She'll be back this afternoon." Luna crouches to Maisie's level. "Thomas is going to keep you company. Is that okay?"
Maisie studies me with those unnervingly bright eyes, her head tilted slightly to one side in a gesture that tickles my memory. After a moment, she nods.
"Can I help with your work?" she asks. "I like to help."
Luna laughs, patting the top of Maisie's head. "She really does. Last week, she reorganized my entire spice cabinet."
"Want to help me organize some supply lists?" I ask.
Her face lights up. "Yes!"
Luna shoots me a grateful look before hurrying off toward the conference room. James follows, leaving me alone with a four-year-old who apparently has strong opinions about organization.
The next hour passes more easily than I expected. Maisie perches on a chair beside my desk, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she helps me create inventory lists for the safe houses. She has thoughts about everything—where flashlights should go, how many bandages we need, which snacks are best for scared people. Granted, most of thosethoughts aren’t the most helpful, but I still nod and hum at each one appreciatively.
"You need more blankets," she declares, studying my list seriously. "When people are scared, they get cold. Even when it's not really cold."
The observation is perceptive for someone her age. "You sound like you know about that."
"Mama and me moved around lots when I was little," she says, coloring in the margins of my notepad. "Sometimes we had to leave fast, and Mama would forget warm stuff. She was always cold the first night."
Something twists in my chest at the image of Fiona and this tiny girl fleeing from place to place, never quite safe. "That must have been scary."
Maisie shrugs with the casual acceptance of a child. "Mama made it okay. She told me stories about wolves so I wouldn't be scared."
"What kind of stories?"
"About running through forests and being free." Her eyes get dreamy. "I have dreams like that sometimes. Where I'm running on four legs, and everything smells really strong."
The words send a chill down my spine. Pre-shift dreams. I've heard dozens of pack children describe them over the years—the vivid dreams of running wild that signal approaching manifestation.
But Maisie is four. Four-year-olds don't have pre-shift dreams.
"Do you dream about changing into a wolf?" I ask carefully.
"What does that mean?"
"Shifting. Like your mama can do."
"Oh." She thinks about this, her little brow furrowing. "Maybe? In my dreams I'm bigger, and I can smell everything better. Is that shifting?"
"It could be." I keep my voice casual. "How long have you been having these dreams?"
"Since we came back here, I think. A few weeks, maybe?" She looks up at me. "Mama says I might be able to shift someday, but not for a really long time."
A long time. Most children don't shift until they're at least ten, often later. For a four-year-old to be experiencing pre-manifestation symptoms is almost unheard of. She'd have to come from incredibly strong bloodlines.
"Can I ask you something?" Maisie says.
"Sure."
"What does it feel like? When you turn into a wolf?"
I pause, considering how to explain something so fundamental to someone so young. "It feels like... coming home. Like becoming who you really are."
"Does it hurt?"
