Page 15 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

We move through the woods in tense silence, following the lakeshore toward the abandoned dock. Spring has barely touched this part of the forest—bare branches reach toward a pearl-gray sky, last year's leaves crackling under our feet. The air smells of wet earth and new growth, and beneath it all, Camila's familiar scent still makes my wolf howl.

"I didn’t ask you to do that," she says suddenly. “I don’t know why you assume you have the right to.”

"What?"

"You’re guarding me." Her voice is carefully neutral, but her scent spikes with something complex. "I'm not your responsibility anymore, Marcus. You made that very clear."

The memory hits like lightning: another lake, another spring day. Camila laughing as I taught her to track scents through forest undergrowth, her eyes bright with discovery. The way she looked at me like I hung the moon, like I could never do wrong.

God, how young we were. How naïve.

"The dock's clear," I say instead of everything I want to. "No fresh scents, no signs of—"

"Why did you do it?"

The question stops me cold. When I turn to look at her, she's staring out over the water, her profile sharp against the silver lake.

"Camila..."

"I deserve to know." Her voice cracks slightly. "Five years, Marcus. Five years of wondering what I did wrong, what made you—"

A growl rips through the forest, too close, too hungry.

Ferals.

Training takes over instantly. I spin toward the sound, placing myself between Camila and the threat even as I catalog details: two distinct growls, movement in the underbrush, the sharp scent of aggression and madness that marks feral shifters.

The first one bursts from the trees like a nightmare—huge, mangy, its eyes glazed with bloodlust. These aren't ordinary shifters who've lost control. These are something worse, something broken.

I meet its charge with a snarl, catching its massive body before it can get anywhere near Camila. We go down in a tangle of fur and teeth—I've shifted without even realizing it consciously, and my teeth come out in a flash. The feral's jaws snap inches from my throat, its breath hot and fetid. I claw at its chest hard, feeling flesh parting near its throat.

But before I can pin it, the second one launches from the shadows, aiming straight for Camila.

My heart stops.

But Camila... Camila moves like lightning. Not good form, sure, but fast and wary. She drops and rolls, stumbling to her feet with only a little unsteadiness. Her shift ripples through her smoothly—claws extending, teeth sharpening, eyes gleaming gold as she sinks toward the ground, dark fur shining in the sunlight. When the feral lunges again, she meets it with precise, messy violence, redirecting its momentum into a nearby tree, claws, and teeth flashing.

The sight distracts me just long enough for my opponent to score a hit—claws raking down my side, drawing blood. Pain flares hot and bright, but I use it, channeling it into focused fury. This close to Camila, I can't risk holding back.

I shift back and drive my elbow into the feral's throat, following with a knee to its sternum. It staggers back, giving me room to shift my stance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Camila dancing away from her opponent's wild swipes, her movements calculated and efficient.

We've never fought together before, but something ancient and instinctual takes over. When she ducks under her feral's guard, I'm already moving to cover her back. When I drive my opponent toward the trees, she's there to cut off its escape route.

It's like a dance we've never practiced but somehow know by heart.

The fight lasts maybe two minutes, but it feels like hours. Every time the ferals get close to Camila, my wolf surges with protective fury. But she doesn't need my protection—she fights smart, using her smaller size to her advantage, never giving them a clean shot.

Finally, I manage to get my hands around my opponent's throat. One sharp twist, and it goes limp. Beside me, Camila slams her feral's head against a boulder with precise force. The crack of its skull makes me wince, but her expression never wavers.

Silence falls, broken only by our heavy breathing and the lap of lake water against the shore.

"Are you hurt?" The words tear from my throat before I can stop them.

Camila straightens, rolling her shoulders like she does this every day. There's a shallow cut on her arm, but nothing serious. "I'm fine. Your side—you're bleeding."

"It's nothing." I start to reach for her, to check her injuries myself, but stop myself just in time. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

A bitter smile crosses her face. "Turns out the world's dangerous for lone wolves. Had to learn to handle myself. I couldn’t hold my own on my own, but I’m great at stalling. Sometimes it’s all you need.”

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