Page 12 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"He's not..." Asher starts, then stops, choosing his words carefully. "I've known Marcus a long time. He's a good Alpha. The best I've served under. But sometimes, he carries more than he needs to. I’m not sure what’s going on between you two, but I want you to know he’s trying.”

I consider my next words carefully. “What’s his history with Kane?”

Something flickers across Asher's face—recognition, maybe, or understanding. "That's not my story to tell."

"No," I agree, turning back to my equipment. "It's not anyone's, apparently. Your pack holds onto secrets like a steel trap."

Asher laughs, a dry, uncomfortable sound.

We work in companionable silence after that, processing the latest batch of photos. I've grown to appreciate Asher's presence—his quiet strength, his careful attention to detail, the way he notices everything but comments on very little. He reminds me of my camera in a way—observing, recording, keeping secrets.

"Tell me about Kane," I say suddenly. The question has been burning in my mind for days. "What makes him different from other extremists? I’ve been… away, for a long time. I come back, and suddenly, shifters are trying to kill each other every other week. I’m trying to learn the new rules."

Asher's hands pause on his tablet. “He’s not new.”

“Well, I suppose I am.” I nod my head forward, gesturing for him to continue.

"He's patient," he says finally. "Most radicals, they're all fury and immediate action. Kane... he plans. Builds networks. Waits for the perfect moment to strike." His scent darkens with something like fear. "And he never forgets a target. He’s held some grudges for years. You’d be surprised, the things he’d do. He’s not… well.”

A chill runs down my spine despite the warm spring day. "Is that what happened to your pack? You were targeted because of a… grudge?”

"Something like that." He meets my eyes steadily. "We thought we were careful. Thought we had time to prepare. But Kane..." He shakes his head. "He'd been watching us for months. Learning our patterns. Our weaknesses."

"Your friends," I say softly. "The ones who lost their shifts..."

His voice roughens. "They were the first test subjects for his weapon, apparently. We didn't even know what was happening until it was too late."

The horror of it settles over me like a physical weight. To have that core part of yourself stripped away, to lose the other half of your soul... "How do you fight someone like that?"

"Carefully," Asher says. "Very carefully. We owe Rosecreek a lot for even letting us be here. God knows you’re all bringing Hell down on yourselves if he comes here.Weknow it. And Aris does, too."

The door opens, and Byron enters with fresh coffee and more equipment. The conversation shifts to technical details—lighting setups, background variations, the subtle art of making lies look like truth.

But Asher's words echo in my mind: Kane never forgets a target.

I wonder, not for the first time, what Marcus isn’t telling me; what he didn’t tell me now, will likely never tell me at all. The secrets I couldn’t pry from him in California, where for a moment in time, it was almost forever. Ibelievedit was forever.

Thinking about it still never fails to make it sting.

The morning stretches into the afternoon. I lose myself in the work, in the precise adjustments of aperture and shutter speed, in the careful construction of false lives. It's easier than thinking about Marcus's impending visit, easier than wondering what truths hide behind Asher's careful words.

Through the windows, Half Moon Lake shimmers in the spring sunlight, its surface deceptively peaceful. Sometimes, I catch myself staring at it, remembering other waters, other times. A lake in California where Marcus first taught me about pack bonds. A beach where we watched the sunset and talked about futures we thought we'd share.

Focus,I tell myself firmly. The past is past. There are more important things at stake now than old heartbreaks and unanswered questions.

But when the door opens again, and Marcus's scent fills the room, all my carefully constructed walls threaten to crumble.

He fills the doorway like a storm front, all contained power and careful control. The morning light catches the silver threads in his hair—new ones, I notice with a pang. He looks tired in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion, though his posture remains rigid and strong.

"Asher," he says, nodding to his second. "Byron." His eyes skip over me like I'm part of the furniture, though his scent spikes with something I refuse to analyze. "Show me what you have."

I busy myself with my camera as Byron pulls up the digital files, pretending to adjust settings that don't need adjusting. But my wolf's attention fixes on Marcus with traitorous intensity, cataloging changes I wish I couldn't see. New scars on his hands. A slight favor to his left side. The way his shoulders carry tension. The hard sharpness of his jaw—he’s lost some weight. Probably recently. Probably stress.

"We've established three distinct trails," Byron explains, pulling up maps dotted with false sightings. "Elena's photos place her in Seattle as of yesterday. James appears to be heading east through Chicago. We're building Asher's trail through Texas..."

Marcus leans over Byron's shoulder, studying the screen with tactical intensity. "Timeline?"

"The Chicago footage goes live tonight. Seattle's already active—Elena's supposedly been there three days, building a convincing pattern of movement."

---