Page 9

I slide a folder toward her, careful not to let our fingers touch. "The first trial is a synchronized tracking exercise. We'll be following a scent trail through the northern forest, working together to—"

"I know how tracking works," she interrupts, scanning the papers. "I grew up here too."

"Right." I shift uncomfortably. "The trial tests our ability to coordinate, to communicate without words. Essential skills for mates."

She flinches slightly at the word "mates” but keeps her eyes on the documents. "When?"

"Three days from now. Dawn. We'll meet at the northern trailhead. I think they’re trying to make sure there won’t be… spectators."

We both wince, remembering the grotesque spectacle of Luna’s trials only months ago.

Outside, the sky darkens suddenly, the morning light dimming as clouds roll in. I glance toward the windows, noticing the gathering storm. "Looks like rain."

Fiona follows my gaze. "The forecast didn't mention a storm."

"Mountain weather," I shrug. "Unpredictable."

The first drops hit the windowpane as we continue reviewing the trial details. Ten minutes later, the sky opens, rain hammering against the glass with startling ferocity. A crack of thunder makes Maisie jump in her seat.

"It's okay, Sweet Pea," Fiona soothes immediately. "Just a storm."

"I don't like the loud noise," Maisie says, abandoning her drawing to move closer to her mother.

"We can reschedule," I offer, watching Fiona wrap a protective arm around her daughter.

"No," she says firmly. "Let's just finish this. The storm will pass."

But it doesn't pass. If anything, it intensifies, lightning flashing at increasingly shorter intervals, thunder cracking directly overhead. The old Pack Building creaks and groans around us as wind lashes at the windows.

"Thomas?" A voice calls from the hallway. James appears in the doorway, looking apologetic. "Nic says we're on lockdown until this passes. Flash flood warning for the lower roads."

"Great," Fiona mutters. "Trapped with you. Exactly how I wanted to spend my morning."

Her hostility is palpable, but I can't blame her. From her perspective, I'm the man who discarded her without explanation, who broke every promise I ever made.

James winces at her tone.

"Sorry," he offers, giving her a sympathetic nod before turning back to me. "You okay in here?"

"We're fine," I assure him, though "fine" is the furthest thing from the truth. The small room suddenly feels like a trap, with Fiona's scent—lavender and rain and something uniquely her—amplified in the close quarters.

James hesitates, then adds in a lower voice, "Try not to kill each other, okay? Poor odds in the betting pool."

I shoot him a warning glare, but the damage is done.

"Betting pool?" Fiona asks sharply after he leaves.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Ignore him."

"They're betting on us? On what, exactly?"

"It's nothing," I try, but her raised eyebrow forces the truth out. "Fine. They're betting on whether we'll complete the trials or kill each other first."

Her expression hardens. "I see. And what are the odds?"

"Fiona—"

"No, I'm curious," she presses, eyes flashing dangerously. She keeps her voice quiet so her daughter can’t hear. "What's the pack saying about the poor guy who drew the outsider in the lottery? Poor Thomas, stuck with damaged goods?"

The bitterness in her voice cuts deep. "That's not—"

"Don't lie to me, Thomas." Fiona leans forward, voice low but intense. "I've heard the whispers. I know what they’re saying. I know what you must think of me.”

I hate that she’s not entirely wrong. People are judging her harshly—for her obviously fatherless child, for the fact that she likely conceived her with some other shifter of some other pack within a year or so of leaving this one.

I hate that a thread of revulsion at the idea lives in me, too—at the idea of some other guy having her.

"I don't care what they think," I say firmly, regardless.

"But I do," she snaps. "Because it affects me. It affects my daughter. Do you have any idea what it's like to return to a place where everyone either pities or despises you?"

Before I can answer, Maisie's small voice interrupts. "Mama, I'm hungry."

The tension breaks as Fiona turns to her daughter, her expression softening instantly. "I know, baby. We'll get lunch soon."

I reach for my backpack, suddenly recalling the sandwich I packed this morning. "I have food, if she wants it. Turkey and cheese."

Fiona looks ready to refuse, but Maisie pipes up, "Yes, please! I like cheese."

After a moment's hesitation, Fiona nods. "Fine. Thank you."

The words sound forced, but it's progress. I unwrap the sandwich, cutting it into quarters with a plastic knife from my pack, and slide it over to Maisie. The child beams at me, a bright smile that momentarily dissolves the tension in the room.

The storm continues to rage outside, trapping us in our uncomfortable tableau. Maisie munches happily on my sandwich, while Fiona and I maintain a strained silence, broken only by occasional comments about the trial details.

An hour passes. The constant drum of rain against the windows becomes almost hypnotic. Maisie, full and content, returns to her drawings, humming softly to herself. The sound creates an oddly domestic atmosphere, one that is at odds with the tension between Fiona and me.

Eventually, Maisie's humming slows, her small head nodding as she fights sleep.

Within minutes, she's asleep, her dark curls spilling across the table, her folded arms resting on it.

She's seemed to be sleeping a lot lately, a lot more than a usual five-year-old, though I’m not sure why.

Maybe she's sick. The thought makes my chest ache, a strange sensation.

Fiona gently arranges her jacket as a makeshift pillow beneath her daughter's head, her movements tender. I watch, transfixed by this side of Fiona I never knew back then—the fierce, protective mother who handles her child with such gentle care.

With Maisie asleep, the room feels different. More intimate, somehow. The steady rhythm of the child's breathing adds a third heartbeat to the space between us.

"She's beautiful," I say quietly, breaking the long silence.

Fiona's eyes remain on her daughter. "Yes, she is."

"She seems... bright. For her age."

"She is." A small, proud smile touches Fiona's lips. "Too smart for her own good sometimes."

The conversation dies again, but the silence feels less hostile than before. After several minutes, I try once more.

"Luna and Nic seem happy."

Fiona glances up, surprised by the change in topic. "They do. Strange, considering how they started."

"The forced lottery, you mean?"

She nods. "Luna told me how much she resented him at first. How she fought against it every step."

"She definitely kept him on his toes," I agree, remembering Nic's frustration during those early days. "Now they're sickeningly cute. Luna's already talking about getting him wearing matching Christmas sweaters for the pack photo this year."

"No." Fiona's eyes widen slightly.

"Complete with reindeer antlers," I confirm.

A small, reluctant smile curves her lips. "I would pay to see that."

"I'm sure Luna would be happy to show you the preliminary designs. She's very proud of her handiwork."

The tension eases fractionally as we slip into safer topics—pack gossip, changes to the town, Ruby's promotion to head of the community outreach program. It's nothing substantial, nothing that bridges the chasm between us, but it's something. A brief respite from the storm of our shared past.

"Remember old Elder Marcus?" I ask. "The one who got stuck in that pine tree during the spring festival?"

Fiona's laugh—a sound I haven't heard in six years—catches us both by surprise. "Because he was chasing that raccoon that stole his ceremonial headpiece?"

"Exactly. Well, he's dating Mrs. Hendricks now."

"The kindergarten teacher?" Fiona shakes her head, still smiling. "I never would have matched those two."

"Apparently, they bonded over their mutual love of bird-watching."

"That's... actually sweet."

Our eyes meet across the table, and for a moment—just a moment—it feels like before. Before Edward's threats, before my betrayal, before six years of heartache and separation. Just Thomas and Fiona, sharing a joke, enjoying each other's company.

I find myself leaning closer, drawn by an invisible thread that has always connected us. Her scent envelops me—stronger now with the rain and close quarters—and my wolf surges toward the surface, recognizing what it lost years ago.

Fiona's eyes widen slightly, her pulse visibly quickening at her throat. For one breathless second, I think she might be feeling it too—this pull that defies logic and time and hurt.

Then she jerks back, the spell broken.

"Don't," she says sharply. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I wasn't—" I begin, confused by her sudden shift.

"Yes, you were," she cuts in, eyes flashing. "You were looking at me like... like you still have the right to. Like six years of nothing just disappears because we had one civil conversation."

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Well, you did." She stands abruptly, moving to the window, putting distance between us. "This is exactly why I didn't want to be stuck here with you. You think one moment of nostalgia changes anything? It doesn't."

"I know that," I say quietly.

Fiona turns back to face me, arms folded defensively across her chest. "Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you seem to have conveniently forgotten that you're the one who ended things. You're the one who decided I wasn't worth fighting for."

The accusation lands like a physical blow. If only she knew how hard I fought—in the only way I could—to keep her safe.

"It wasn't that simple," I say, the closest I've come to the truth in six years.

"It seemed pretty simple to me," she snaps. "One day, we were planning a future; the next, you couldn't get rid of me fast enough. No explanation, no goodbye, just 'this was never serious, Fiona.' Clear as day."

Every word twists the knife deeper. I want to tell her everything—about her father's threats, about the impossible choice I faced, about how walking away from her was the hardest thing I've ever done. But the fear that kept me silent then still grips me now. If Edward found out, I'd told her...

"I made mistakes," I say instead, inadequate but honest. "I hurt you. I know that."

"Hurt me?" She laughs, a brittle sound. "You destroyed me, Thomas. And now we're stuck in this nightmare lottery, and everyone's watching and whispering and betting on whether I'll be able to stomach completing the trials with the man who broke my heart."

Her raw honesty leaves me speechless. Before I can formulate a response, she turns back to the window.

"The rain's letting up," she says, her voice suddenly empty of emotion. "We should be able to leave soon."

As if on cue, the storm begins to ease, the thunder moving away, and the rain softens from a violent downpour to a steady drizzle. The reprieve we've both been waiting for.

Fiona moves to Maisie, gently waking her, gathering her drawings with careful hands. The little girl blinks sleepily, rubbing her eyes with small fists.

"Is the big storm gone?" she asks.

"Almost," I tell her. "Just rain now."

She slides from her chair, coming to stand beside me with surprising boldness. "Thank you for the sandwich. It was yummy."

"You're welcome, Maisie."

She tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that seems beyond her years. "You're not as scary as the other kids said."

"Maisie," Fiona interjects, alarmed. "That's enough. We need to go."

But the child isn't finished. "They said you're the strongest wolf, and you catch bad people. Do you?"

Something in my chest tightens painfully.

"Sometimes," I admit. "When I have to."

She nods, satisfied with this answer. "Good. Mama says there are bad people who don't like wolves."

Fiona moves swiftly to her daughter's side, gathering her close. "Time to go, Sweet Pea. Say goodbye to Mr. Ennes."

"Bye, Mr. Ennes," Maisie chirps obediently.

"I'll walk you out," I offer, rising from my chair.

"That's not necessary," Fiona says quickly, her tone hardening again. "We're perfectly capable of finding our way."

"The storm's still not completely passed. At least let me see you to the path—”

"I said no," she replies, the brief connection we'd shared completely erased. "We're fine on our own. We have been for years."

The pointed reminder of her independence stings, but I step back, hands raised in surrender. "The first trial, then. Monday. Northern trailhead at dawn."

"We'll be there," she says coolly, taking Maisie's hand. "Not like we have a choice."

They leave without a backward glance, the door closing firmly behind them. I stand motionless in the suddenly empty room, the ghost of lavender and rain lingering in the air.

With mechanical movements, I gather the scattered papers and abandoned folders. One of Maisie's drawings catches my eye—a colorful rendition of what appears to be Silvercreek, with trees and buildings and small stick figures. A child's view of her new home.

I set it aside, intending to return it if I see them again before the trial. Then I sink back into my chair, exhaustion washing over me in the storm's aftermath.

Six years, and Fiona's anger is still as raw as the day I broke her heart. Six years, and the threats that forced me to leave her still haunt me. And now we're bound together by the very pack laws I once hoped would protect us.

Outside, the clouds begin to break, shafts of sunlight piercing the gray. But the storm in my mind shows no signs of passing, and the fear that Edward Wright might somehow learn of our forced reunion grows with every passing hour.

Three days until the first trial. Three days to figure out how to work with a woman who hates me, while keeping the truth buried so deeply it can never hurt her again.

The odds in that betting pool are looking worse by the minute.