Page 2 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

Bigby fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the morning light. His expression is tight, serious in a way that immediately sets my wolf on edge. Even after three months, I'm still getting used to how pack bonds work—how emotions ripple like stones dropped in still water. Bigby's urgency sends little shockwaves of tension through the connection, making my hands twitch toward my camera. Some habits die hard; I've spent years documenting crisis moments.

"Raf," he says, nodding to my brother. His eyes flick to me briefly, something unreadable passing over his face. The morning shadows deepen the lines around his eyes, making him look older than usual. "We need you at the pack center.Now."

Rafael straightens, all traces of playfulness vanishing. The shift in his demeanor is subtle but complete—this is the Rafael that commands respect in the supernatural world, not my goofy big brother whose only goal half the time is to make me laugh until I puke. Acutely, I feel his mood shift like a door closing, everything personal and warm tucked away behind layers of professional calm. "What's wrong? Thalia—"

"She’s fine. Another team just arrived requesting sanctuary." Bigby's voice is carefully neutral, but there's an undercurrent of... something. Tension? Concern? His gaze slides to me again, then back to Rafael. "It's complicated. Aris wants everyone in the core team there."

The words "another team" echo strangely in my mind. In the three months I've been here, I've seen how Rosecreek works—they're selective about who they shelter, careful about the risks they take. Supernatural politics are delicate things; one wrong move can spark conflicts that burn for generations. They’ve been cautious since the Smoke fell, since well before it. For Aris to call an emergency meeting...

"What team?" Rafael's voice has taken on a careful neutrality. I can see him gathering himself, mental walls clicking into place.

"I'll brief you on the way." Bigby's tone allows for no argument. "They're waiting in the main hall."

Rafael nods, already moving. He pauses at the door, looking back at me. The morning light catches his face at an angle that makes him look older, more tired. "Sorry, Mila. Rain check on finishing this?"

"Go," I wave him off, though something uneasy stirs in my gut. My wolf paces restlessly, picking up on something in the air that my human senses can't quite grasp. "Go be important. I promise not to reorganize anything while you're gone."

He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Then they're both gone, leaving me alone in the suddenly too-quiet garage. Through the window, I watch them stride toward the pack center, heads bent in conversation. Their breath clouds in the crisp air, and something about the sight makes me reach for my camera almost unconsciously—two figures moving through the morning mist, urgent with purpose, the weight of responsibility visible in their bearing.

But for the first time in years, I don't take the shot. Something holds my hand still, some instinct deeper than my photographer's eye. The morning light seems different now, harder somehow. Less ethereal and more exposing. The frost patterns on the windows cast shadows that look almost like claw marks.

My wolf whines softly in the back of my mind, sensing change on the wind. In five years of chasing dangerous shots around the globe, I've developed a sixth sense for when situations are about to shift, when the perfect moment of calm precedes the storm. It's what's made me good at what I do—that ability to feel the instant before everything changes.

I feel it now. Standing in my brother's garage surrounded by the familiar tools of my trade, I feel it in my bones: something's coming. The light is changing, the shadows lengthening, and all my hard-won peace feels suddenly fragile as frost.

And I can’t take the shot.

Through the pack bonds, still, barely there even after three months, I imagine I can catch echoes of surprise, tension, a spike of something that might be recognition. My fingers itch for my camera, but I force them still. Some moments shouldn't be captured. Some changes need to be lived through, not observed from behind the safety of a lens.

Instead, I start packing away my equipment with methodical care, each piece in its proper place. Whatever's coming, I have a feeling I will want my gear ready to move. Five years of instinct doesn't lie.

The light through the windows shifts again as clouds move across the sun. In the distance, a wolf howls—morning patrol changing shifts. Just another day in Rosecreek.

But nothing stays the same forever. I've spent five years running from that truth. Maybe all that movement has finally caught up with me.

I close my camera bag with a final, decisive click. Time to face whatever comes next.

Chapter 2 - Marcus

Old instincts die hard.

Even here, in what's supposed to be friendly territory, my eyes map every entrance and exit as we approach the looming red brick of the Rosecreek pack center. Two main doors, three emergency exits, huge windows that could serve as escape routes in a pinch. The roof access isn't immediately visible, but there must be one—the building's too well-designed not to have it. Enormous glass panels all across the top floor. I file it all away, piece by piece.

My team falls into defensive formation at my heels without being told, years of working together, making it as natural as breathing.

"You’ve got that look on your face,” Elena murmurs from my left, her voice pitched low enough that only shifter hearing could catch it. Despite the tension in her shoulders, amusement colors her tone. "You’re looking at every building like you're planning a heist."

"I prefer to think of it as his unfailing professional thoroughness." To my right, James adjusts the strap of his medical kit, wincing slightly. The wound in his side hasn't fully healed—shifter or not, some injuries take time. "And you're one to talk. I saw you counting cameras on the way in."

"That's different. That's my job."

"Children," Asher says from behind us, his deep voice carrying that particular mix of affection and exasperation I've come to expect from my second-in-command. "Maybe we save the bickering forafterwe secure sanctuary?"

They fall silent, but I catch the ghosts of smiles on their faces. Even now, after everything we've been through—or maybe because of it—they can't help but needling each other. It's how we cope, how we've always coped. Turn fear into jokes, terror into teasing. We're all that's left of the original Marshall City team, the only ones who made it through Kane's first attack. The bonds between us run deeper than pack, deeper than family.

The pack center's architecture is impressive—all clean lines and natural materials, somehow both modern and timeless. It looks both welcoming and defensible, which I suppose is the point. I can tell it’s been recently renovated, perhaps even partially reconstructed. We’ve all heard rumors of Rosecreek’s difficulties with other packs in the past six months.

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