Page 9 of Fat Betrayed Mate
The world stops.
A collective intake of breath ripples through the gathering. Heads turn toward me, eyes wide with surprise, then narrowing with speculation. The whispers begin immediately. I can’t hear the words, but I know what they’re saying, can feel it in the heat of their disapproving looks:isn’t she the one with the human father? Didn’t she run away? Doesn’t she have some fatherless kid?
Someone nudges me forward. Ruby, her face a mask of concern.
"Fiona," she whispers. "You have to go up there."
My legs move without my permission, carrying me through the parting crowd. Each step feels like walking through deep water. Faces blur as I pass—some pitying, some amused, some openly hostile. Melissa’s features are caught somewhere between disdain and confusion, a strange, reserved expression, as if she doesn’t know whether she wants to jeer at me or ask if I’m alright.
"This has to be a mistake," she whispers to her friend, loud enough for me to hear, though I doubt she meant for me to catch it.
I keep my eyes forward, chin up, though my insides are liquid with humiliation and shock. The walk to the platform feels endless, each step taking me closer to the man I've spent six years trying to forget.
Finally, I reach the stone steps. Victoria extends her hand, a ceremonial gesture I can't refuse. Her palm is dry and warm against mine as she guides me to stand beside her.
"The ancestors have spoken," she says, her voice oddly gentle. "Fiona Wright will complete the mate trials with Thomas Ennes, to determine if their bond is true."
I force myself to look up then, to meet Thomas's eyes across the platform. His face has lost all color, his jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded flashes in his eyes—panic? regret?—before his expression shutters closed.
Nic steps forward, following the script of the ancient ceremony. "Do you accept the wisdom of the ancestors, Thomas Ennes?"
Thomas's voice, when it comes, is rough around the edges. "I accept."
Nic turns to me, those Alpha eyes seeing far too much. "Do you accept the wisdom of the ancestors, Fiona Wright?"
No. Never. I'd rather die. The words claw at my throat, desperate for release.
But I think of Maisie, of what happens to rogues who defy pack law. Of hunters in the night and wolves with no sanctuary.
"I accept," I force out, the words tasting like poison.
The formal ceremony concludes with ritual words I barely hear. My focus narrows to keeping my legs from buckling, my face from showing the scream building inside me. Through it all, I feel Thomas's gaze like a physical touch, hot on my face, but I refuse to meet his eyes again.
When Victoria finally releases my hand, I step back, desperate to escape. But I’m forced to stay, to receive the congratulations of the pack. Women who moments ago whispered about me now approach with brittle smiles, offering empty words.
"Such an honor," says one, her eyes calculating.
"Our ancestors must see something special in you, I guess," offers another, doubt clear in her tone, as ifshecouldn’t see anything special in me if she tried.
Melissa Blackwood doesn't bother with pretense. She approaches without her coterie of friends, looking me up and down.
“I wanted him,” she says flatly, in a quieter voice than I expected.
I remember how she was in school, three years younger than me, but constantly picking on the outcasts her own size; Luna and Ruby were her primary targets. As Nic’s little sister, she’s always been protected by the pack’s inner circle. But there’s been some change in her. I wonder idly what happened.
I meet her gaze steadily, though my hands tremble at my sides. "Believe me, I'm as thrilled as you are."
Her perfect eyebrows arch, then lower. She sighs and steps away, not quite conceding but not pushing either. Somehow, I appreciate it.
“Good luck,” she says over her shoulder, her dress shimmering in the torchlight as she returns to her murmuring friends. “Don’t try to leave again.”
The implication lands like a slap. I left, therefore, I'm disloyal. I suppose I can’t blame her for thinking it. It’s how all these small-minded people think.
More people are closing in now, faces I either don’t recognize or recognize only from bad memories. I scan the clearing desperately for an escape route. The formal part of the evening is giving way to celebration—fires being lit around theperimeter, food and drink appearing on long tables. No one would notice if I slipped away now.
I edge toward the tree line, only to find Luna Blackwood blocking my path, two cups in her hands.
"Here," she says, pressing one into my cold fingers. "You look like you need this."
