Page 19 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"Yes." The word comes out barely above a whisper.

"Then you knew him... before.”

"Before?" Something cold settles in my gut. "Before what?"

But James is already turning back to his work, that same careful mask sliding into place. "You should ask Marcus about that. It's not my place to—"

"To tell the story. I know." Frustration bubbles up in my chest. "Everyone keeps saying that, but Marcus won't tell me anything. And clearly, something happened—something with Kane, something about his parents, something that made him..."

Leave me. Push me away. Break both our hearts.

James sighs, setting down his equipment with deliberate care. "Look, Camila... Marcus is a good Alpha. The best I've known. But he carries things—guilt, responsibility, pain—that he shouldn't have to carry alone. Kane didn't just target our pack randomly. He chose us because of Marcus. Because of something that happened years ago, something that..." He shakes his head. "Something that changed everything."

"When?" I ask, even though I'm starting to suspect the answer. "When did it happen?"

"Five years ago." James's voice is gentle, but the words hit like physical blows. "Just after Marcus left the military, and just before he took over as Alpha of Marshall City."

It would have been around the time he walked away from me.

“I know something happened,” I mutter, no small amount of resentment evident in my voice.“Ihappened. Must have been a great inconvenience for him to have to deal with me asking—with metrying—”

I can’t finish the sentence. I want to scream into a pillow, scream into the night, run into the woods in my wolf form, and howl until my throat gives in.

I can see the pack center's lights reflecting off Half Moon Lake through the clinic's windows. Marcus is probably working late somewhere in that building, carrying burdens I never knew about. Fighting battles, I never understood.

"Thank you," I tell James sincerely, already moving toward the door. "For telling me what you could."

“I’m sorry,” he says to my back, though I don’t know what for.

I think of Michael, of Fiona, of the way losing their shifts has changed them. Of the shadows in Marcus's eyes when he looks at me, like he's seeing ghosts.

I can’t reply. I leave wordless, feeling profoundly alone somehow.

As I walk back through Rosecreek's darkening streets, my wolf restless under my skin, I wonder if that's true what I’ve heard in this town. Whether it’s true that something broken can be mended. Enough people have said it to be. Heaven knows I’ve never believed it.

It might break me all over again if I do.

Still, the notion follows me home like a shadow, as persistent as the memory of Marcus's scent, as haunting as the secrets everyone keeps almost telling me. Tomorrow I'll go back to creating false trails, to helping his pack stay hidden. To pretending my heart doesn't race every time he enters a room.

But tonight, I let myself remember California. Let myself remember the way things were before—before Kane, before secrets, before everything fell apart.

And I wonder what Marcus's parents would think of what their son has become. Of the weight he carries. They were good people. I hardly remember them now, but I know they were good.

Chapter 8 - Marcus

The training room echoes with the sound of combat—flesh meeting flesh, the sharp exhalation of breath, the controlled chaos of two teams learning to work as one. Morning light streams through high windows, turning the polished floor into a mirror that reflects every movement, every strike, every carefully orchestrated dance of predators learning each other's rhythms.

I should be focused on the integration. On how Elena's speed complements Bigby's power, how James's tactical mind meshes with Ado's instincts. On all the ways our teams need to learn to fight together before Kane finds us.

Instead, my attention keeps dragging back to Camila.

Camila moves like smoke through the sparring matches, all that strange, fluid, untrained sharpness. She moves in a fight like someone traversing a busy street, all reaction and interplay. Nothing like the girl I knew in California, who used her camera like a shield and startled at sudden movements. This Camila is something else entirely—scrappy and rough, she sees angles and opportunities where others might miss them.

"Your left side's open," Devon calls to her all the same, ducking under her guard to tap her ribs. "You telegraph that swing."

My wolf snarls at the sight of her in combat, even if it's just training. Every instinct screams to protect her, to put myself between her and any potential threat. But she doesn't need my protection—apparently, she hasn't needed it for years.

"She's good," Asher says quietly, materializing at my shoulder. "Natural talent?”

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