Page 16 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

The words hit harder than any feral's claws. Because this is my fault—every skill Camila’s had to learn, every scar she's earned, every moment she's had to be stronger than she should have needed to be.

I’m not guilty for what I did. But at the same time, I… regret it. I regret it more than anything. It’s a strange combination.

"Camila," I start, not even sure what I'm going to say.

But her expression closes off, masks sliding back into place. "We should report this. The pack needs to know about feral activity this close to town."

She's right. Of course, she's right. But watching her walk away, seeing the warrior she's had to become... My wolf howls with a pain deeper than any physical wound.

Chapter 7 - Camila

My hands won't stop shaking.

Three days after the feral attack, I still can't hold my camera steady when I think about it.

Not because of the violence—I've seen worse in my travels, photographed the aftermath of supernatural battles that would turn most humans' hair white. No, what haunts me is how Marcus and I moved together, like two parts of a whole, like we'd never spent a day apart. Like our bodies remembered what our minds are trying so hard to forget.

"I’m not enjoying being in the general vicinity of your thousand-yard stare," Elena says, gentle but firm. She's sorting through a stack of ID photos, building our latest deception. Dark circles shadow her eyes—she barely sleeps most days, working constantly to keep her team safe. "Want to talk about it?"

I focus on my camera settings, and I am grateful for the mechanical precision required. "Nothing to talk about. Just thinking about the ferals."

"Mmm." She doesn't push, but something knowing crosses her face. "They can be unpredictable. Good thing you and Marcus work well together."

My hands still on the lens. "We don't—that wasn't—"

"Camila." She sets down the photos, turning to face me fully. In the morning, light streaming through the pack center's windows, she looks both younger and older than her years. "You don't have to explain. We all have history. You owe me nothing.”

The gentle understanding in her voice nearly breaks me. These past few days working with the Marshall City pack have shown me so much about them—their loyalty, their resilience, the bonds that run deeper than blood. Elena has especially become something like a friend, sharing coffee and stories during photo sessions.

"Speaking of history," I say, desperate to change the subject, "tell me about James's latest breakthrough? Byron mentioned something about a new treatment approach?"

Elena's expression brightens slightly. "He thinks he's identified a pattern in how Kane's serum affects shifter DNA. Something about the way it bonds to specific genetic markers. He's been working with Veronica on potential counter-agents."

"For your sister?"

"And Michael." She swallows hard. "And anyone else Kane might target. We can't... we can't let this happen to another pack. Permanent or not, it’s the kind of trauma that never fully goes away."

The raw pain in her voice makes my own troubles seem small.

"James seems hopeful," I offer, remembering the quiet determination in the medic's voice during yesterday's update meeting.

"James is always hopeful." Elena's smile is fond but worried. "Even when Kane first attacked our compound, even when we were running with barely any supplies, even when his own injuries were barely healing... he never stopped believing we'd find a way to fix this."

My wolf stirs restlessly at the mention of the attack. I've gathered that it was brutal, devastating, but no one talks about it directly. Like a wound too fresh to touch.

"How long?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. "How long has Kane been after your pack?"

Elena's scent shifts, tension threading through it. "Actively? A few months. But he's been watching us for longer. Building his network, gathering intelligence. Marcus thinks—" She stops abruptly, something like fear flickering across her face.

"Marcus thinks what?"

But she's already turning back to the photos, masks sliding into place. "We should focus on these. The next batch needs to go live tonight."

I let it drop, but the moment stays with me, adding to the growing pile of questions I can't seem to shake. There's something here, something about Marcus and Kane, about why the Marshall City pack was targeted. Something no one wants to talk about.

Some kind of long, ugly history.

The morning slides into the afternoon as we work, broken only by James bringing us lunch—sandwiches—and detailed updates about his latest research. He moves carefully, still favoring his healing wound, but there's an intensity to him that wasn't there last week. Rosecreek will do that to you, I’m learning.

---