Page 14 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

There are more important things at stake than old heartbreaks.

Chapter 6 - Marcus

The water’s surface ripples under a chill spring wind, turning Half Moon Lake's glossy surface into sheets of hammered silver. Bigby takes point as we approach the tree line, his massive frame moving with surprising stealth. Behind us, Ado ghosts through the underbrush like a shadow, covering our flank with the kind of fluid grace from years of special ops training.

And Camila, damn her, walks between them like she belongs there. Like she hasn't just invited herself along on a potential combat situation with absolutely no tactical training or protective gear.

"You don't need to be here," I say for the third time, trying to keep the growl from my voice. "We have it covered."

"I know these woods better than you do." She doesn't even look at me; her attention focused on our surroundings with predator intensity. When did she learn to move like that? The Camila I knew five years ago was all artist's grace, not warrior's vigilance. Maybe somewhere far across the ocean, traveling alone through a foreign and unsafe world, she learned to become this strange, stealthy thing, blending perfectly in.

“You’re new here, too,” I point out.

“Not as news as you. Plus, I like to walk.” She shoots me a look. "Besides, four sets of eyes are better than three."

My wolf snarls at her casual dismissal of the danger. Doesn't she understand what we might be walking into? Kane's people are professionals. They don't leave survivors.

But before I can argue further, Bigby raises a fist—the universal signal to halt.

"Scent marker," he says quietly. "Fresh. But something's off about it."

I move forward to investigate, cataloging details automatically. The marker is crude, nothing like Kane's people's usual precision. The scent carries notes of aggression and territorial challenge, but lacks the clinical edge I've learned to associate with our pursuers.

"Not Kane's," I confirm, relief warring with continued tension. "Different signature entirely."

"Ferals," Ado confirms quietly, materializing beside me like smoke. "We've had more and more lately. All the pack dissolutions in the Midwest have left a lot of displaced shifters. Some can't handle being packless, end up going feral."

Bigby nods grimly. "Three major packs dissolved just in Minnesota this year. Territory disputes, internal conflicts, increased violence between different supernatural factions. When packs break apart, not everyone finds a new home. Some just... break."

"And the ones who break end up here?" Camila asks, her voice carefully neutral.

"These woods have always drawn strays," Ado explains. "But lately it's gotten worse. The ferals are more aggressive, more desperate. Last month, we heard another pack had to put down a whole group of them near the state border. Usually, they don’t end up on our borders. Used to be just spring migrations causing problems, but now..."

"Now it's symptomatic of something bigger," Bigby finishes. "Whole communities falling apart. These aren't Kane's people we're tracking—just the aftermath of what's happening to our kind everywhere."

Camila edges closer to the group, and my entire body tenses at her proximity to potential danger.

Bigby straightens, scanning the trees. "Either way, we should—"

A branch snaps somewhere to our left.

Every instinct I possess screams at me to put myself between the sound and Camila. But she's already moving, fluid as water, positioning herself with the rest of us in a defensive formation I know she's never been trained in. Instinct, I think—either that, or she was watchingme.

The thought of the latter makes me just a little nauseous.

"Just wildlife," Ado says after a tense moment. "Probably deer. The scent's hours old now."

"We should still sweep the perimeter," Bigby decides. "Ado, take the north side. I'll check the boat launch. You two..." He glances between me and Camila, something knowing in his expression. "Check the old dock. Radio if you find anything."

I want to protest the pairing, but there's no tactical reason to. Besides, something in Bigby's scent suggests this isn't a coincidence. Aris must have told him about our history.

"Fine," I say shortly. "Camila, stay alert. Even if it's not Kane's people, feral shifters are unpredictable."

Camila makes a soft sound that might be amusement or annoyance. "I can handle myself."

The words hit like a physical blow. Because she shouldn'thaveto know how to handle herself in combat situations. She shouldn't have to know anything about ferals, territorial markers, or defensive formations.

She should be safe. That's all I ever wanted.

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