Page 10 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

Chapter 5 - Camila

Spring rain drums against the pack center's windows, turning the world outside into an impressionist blur. I've spent twenty minutes trying to capture the exact way the droplets catch the morning light, but my camera refuses to cooperate. Or maybe I'm the one who can't focus. Every click of the shutter feels like an accusation:You're hiding. You're stalling. You're afraid.

"I think that's enough test shots," Byron says gently from behind his laptop. He's been patient with my procrastination, but an urgency underneath his calm reminds me why we're here. "Want to see what I've done with the background setup?"

I lower my camera, forcing myself to turn away from the rain-streaked windows. The conference room we've transformed into a makeshift photography studio is all business: white backdrop, professional lighting, equipment that appeared mysteriously overnight after I agreed to help. Byron's expertise shows in the setup—he's thought of everything, down to the specific angles we'll need for new ID photos.

"Show me what you're thinking," I say, moving to look over his shoulder. The screen displays a series of carefully constructed digital backgrounds—different cities, landmarks, locations that could convince anyone the Marshall City pack is anywhere but here.

"Each team member needs at least three different IDs," Byron explains, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Different names, different backgrounds, different lives. We'll need casual photos, too, for social media trails. Make it look like they're scattered across the country instead of all in one place."

The technical details are a relief—something to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest that hasn't gone away since that day in the clinic. Three days have passed, and I haven't seen Marcus once. I tell myself that's a good thing.

"These are good," I say, studying the backgrounds. "Really good. Where'd you learn to do this?"

Byron's smile is wry. "Rosecreek has had me do some crazy stuff over the years.”

“God knows where you would have ended up working if not for them,” I joke.

Byron laughs, an open, genuine sound. “Probably better this way,” he agrees.

I think of my own path here—the endless running, the increasingly dangerous assignments, the desperate need to prove something to myself.

“Better this way, yeah,” I agree.

The door opens, and Asher enters, carrying two coffee cups. He's been a constant presence these past few days, coordinating between his team and ours. There's something steady about him, a calm certainty that makes even my wolf relax slightly. I can even ignore that Marcus is his Alpha—and apparently his best friend.

"Thought you could use this," he says, handing me one of the cups. "Elena says you were here before dawn."

I accept the coffee, grateful for both the caffeine and the kindness. "Thanks. How's James doing?"

"Better. Veronica redid his stitches yesterday. She thinks the healing delay might be due to some nasty new poison on Kane’s people’s weapons." Asher settles into a chair, his large frame making the furniture seem smaller. "The whole thing's got everyone on edge."

The mention of Kane sends a chill down my spine. I've learned more about him in the past few days than I ever wanted to know—a radical who believes shifters who cooperate with humans are traitors to their kind, who's willing to strip other shifters of their abilities to prove his point. The type of fanatic that makes even hardened fighters like Asher look worried.

"How long have you been dealing with him?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. What I really want to know is: Did Marcus know about this five years ago?

Asher's expression turns carefully neutral. "A while. It got worse after he developed the suppression weapon. Before that, he was just another extremist. Now..."

"Now he can actually hurt people," I finish. The thought of losing my shift, of having that core part of myself stripped away, makes my wolf whine anxiously. "And you're sure there's no cure?"

"Not yet. James and Veronica are working on it, but..." He trails off, his scent colored with grief and anger. "Fiona and Michael, the ones who were hit, were more than just pack. They were family. Michael was a team member, and Fiona was training to join us. We were… close. It’s still fresh, for all of us."

The raw pain in his voice makes me look away. I've learned that the Marshall City pack’s defense team is small, tight-knit. Every member is carefully chosen, bonds forged through shared battles and mutual trust. To have two of them violated like that...

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "I know it's not much, but... I'm sorry."

Asher nods, accepting the inadequate comfort. "That's why this matters." He gestures to our setup. "Every day we can keep Kane's people confused about our location is another day James has in order to work on an antidote. Another day to figure out how to stop him before he can do this to anyone else."

The weight of what we're doing settles over me. This isn't just about fake IDs and doctored photos. It's about protecting people—not just Marcus's pack, but every shifter who might be targeted by Kane's twisted ideology.

It’s about protecting Rosecreek, too. Holding Kane off until we can’t anymore. And some part of me knew I was signing up to protect them when I agreed to stay, I know. Rosecreek attracts trouble—this pack, I’m learning, has terrible luck.

"Okay," I say, picking up my camera with renewed purpose. "Let's make this convincing."

***

The next few days blur together in a rhythm of shutter clicks and careful lies. Elena is first in front of my camera, her petite frame belying the steel in her spine. She tells stories about her sister Fiona between shots, little details that make my heart ache—how Fiona used to bake when she was stressed, how she'd sing off-key while cleaning weapons, how she hasn't done either since losing her shift.

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