Page 55 of Fat Betrayed Mate
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.
