Page 24 of Fat Betrayed Mate (Silvercreek Lottery Mates #2)

I think about the vulnerability in Thomas's voice as he described his lonely years, the way his scent carried grief like a physical weight. "It was honest. Sometimes that's significant enough."

"I'm glad. For both of you." Luna squeezes my arm. "You deserve happiness, Fiona. Even if it comes in ways you weren't expecting."

I escape to the porch after an hour of small talk and forced smiles. The night air carries the sounds of increased security—radio chatter, the distant hum of additional patrols. Normal celebration feels obscene when people are preparing for war.

"Mama!"

I turn to find Maisie racing toward me from the direction of the main compound, Thomas close behind. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, her hair escaping from its braids.

"We were playing the tracking game!" she announces, throwing herself against my legs for a hug. "Thomas taught me how to follow scent trails like a real wolf!"

"Did he now?" I look up to find Thomas watching us with an expression I can't quite decipher—fond, but with an undercurrent of something deeper.

"She's a natural," he says. "Found every marker I left, even the ones I tried to hide in running water."

"That's because I'm part wolf, too," Maisie says matter-of-factly. "Mama says all shifters are part wolf, even when we look like people."

"That's right." Thomas crouches to her level, his voice gentle. "The wolf part is always there, even when it's sleeping."

"Is your wolf sleeping right now?"

"Most of the time. But sometimes it wakes up when it needs to protect the people I care about."

Maisie considers this with the seriousness only a five-year-old can bring to philosophical discussions. "My wolf is still little. But Mama says it'll get bigger when I do."

"Your mama's right." Thomas glances up at me, and I see a flash of something—recognition, maybe, or suspicion. "Growing takes time."

"Can we play again tomorrow?" Maisie asks. "I want to try the hard trail, the one with the creek crossings."

"If your mama says it's okay."

They both look at me expectantly, and my heart does something complicated in my chest. This is what we could have had—Thomas patient and encouraging, Maisie trusting and eager to learn, the three of us building something real together.

"We'll see," I say, the safest answer I can manage.

Maisie chatters about their game as we walk home, describing in detail how she identified different scent markers and tracked them through increasingly complex terrain. Thomas listens with genuine interest, asking questions that make her beam with pride.

It's only when we reach my cottage that the domestic illusion breaks.

"I should get some sleep," Thomas says, stepping back to create professional distance. "Early patrol tomorrow."

"Of course." I fumble with my keys, hyperaware of him watching. "Thank you for entertaining her tonight."

"It wasn't entertainment. She's..." He pauses, studying Maisie's upturned face in the porch light. "She's remarkable."

After he leaves, I tuck Maisie into bed and listen to her recount every detail of their evening together. Her enthusiasm is infectious, but underneath it, I catch something else—a wistfulness, like she's tasting something she didn't know she was hungry for.

"Thomas is nice," she says as I turn off her light.

"He is."

"He makes me feel safe. Like nothing bad could happen when he's around."

My chest tightens. "That's good, sweetheart."

"Do you think he likes us?"

"I think he likes you very much."

"What about you? Does he like you, too?"

"It's complicated, baby girl."

"Everything grown-up is complicated," she says with a sigh that sounds far too old for her years.

I'm still thinking about her words the next morning as I walk her to the temporary school set up in the pack house.

The building bustles with activity—families adapting to closer quarters, children adjusting to new routines, and adults trying to maintain normalcy while preparing for potential violence.

I'm helping Maisie hang up her backpack when I catch Nic's voice drifting from the adjacent conference room.

"—specifically hunting for Fiona and her daughter, according to the prisoners—you heard it too. This isn't random violence, Thomas. It's personal."

My blood turns to ice. I step closer to the partially open door, Maisie distracted by a friend's new drawing.

"I know that," Thomas says, his voice tight. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t think about it every moment?”

I can hear Nic’s frown as he responds: “Watch your tone, Thomas.”

"Jesus." I can hear Thomas moving, pacing, probably. “Sorry. You just—it’s just—”

“I know.” A soft thump, like Nic, has patted Thomas on the shoulder. “I know.”

My vision starts to tunnel. This is my fault. Every threat against Silvercreek, every family displaced, every child living in fear—it's all because I brought Edward's obsession here.

He’s looking for me. The note told me as much, but now the pack knows it too.

Will they toss me out? Find some way to punish me for it?

Will they hand us over?

"We need to increase security around all families," Thomas says. "Especially them.”

"Already in motion. But Thomas, if this man is as dangerous as our prisoners suggest—"

"He is." Thomas's voice carries absolute certainty. "Edward Wright is capable of anything."

The way he says it makes me freeze. Not like someone speculating about a stranger, but like someone who knows. Really knows.

"Mama?" Maisie tugs at my sleeve. "Can I go play with Katie?"

I nod absently, my mind racing, nausea rising in my throat. How long have they known? How long has Thomas been playing some elaborate game, pretending ignorance while planning... what? When he’s known my father is hunting me?

What else does he know?

"Ms. Wright?" The teacher appears at my elbow, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"I need to take Maisie home," I manage to say. "She's not feeling well."

It's a lie, but I can't leave her here. Not when I don't know who else knows the truth, who else might be watching her with new understanding.

"Maisie, sweetheart," I call, my voice artificially bright. "Come on, we're going home."

"But I just got here!"

"I know, baby. We'll come back later."

She protests, but I'm already gathering her things, my hands shaking as I zip up her backpack. I need to get her away from here, need to think, need to figure out what this means for us.

The walk home feels endless, my paranoia spiking with every glance from passing pack members. Do they all know? Are they all just waiting for orders to turn us over to Edward?

Once inside, I lock the door and pull the curtains closed. Maisie settles on the couch with her coloring books, oblivious to my panic.

I pace the living room, my mind churning through possibilities and implications. Edward is specifically hunting for us. The pack leadership knows who I am. Thomas has been lying about his knowledge of my father.

The walls feel like they're closing in, the cottage suddenly too small to contain my fear. We need to run. Tonight, before whatever Edward is planning comes to pass, before the pack decides we're too dangerous to protect.

But even as I think it, I know it's impossible. Edward will track us wherever we go. He's had six years to perfect his hunting techniques, six years to build a network of contacts and resources. Running will only delay the inevitable.

Which leaves me with one option I've been avoiding: telling Thomas the truth about Maisie.

The thought terrifies me more than facing Edward's rifle. Because once Thomas knows, everything changes. Either he rejects us both, confirming every abandonment issue I've ever had, or he tries to help, putting himself in Edward's crosshairs alongside us.

I stare at Maisie, bent over her coloring book with intense concentration, her tongue poking out slightly as she tries to stay within the lines. She has Thomas's nose, his stubborn chin, his way of tilting her head when she's thinking hard about something.

If I tell him, I'm gambling with her safety. If I don't, I'm gambling with her life.

For the first time in six years, I'm not sure which risk is greater.

"Mama?" Maisie looks up from her drawing. "Are you sad?"

"A little, sweetheart."

"Want to color with me? Coloring makes me feel better when I'm sad."

I settle beside her on the couch, accepting the purple crayon she offers. We color in companionable silence while I weigh impossible choices and prepare for conversations I'm not ready to have.

Outside, the sound of increased patrols reminds me that time is running out. Soon, very soon, I'm going to have to decide whether the truth is a weapon or a shield.

And pray I'm making the right choice for my daughter's future.